


Beautiful World

by Wonwordful



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-15 00:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 44
Words: 50,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9211568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonwordful/pseuds/Wonwordful
Summary: It's a time when chaos, terror and curses reign supreme. No one is truly free but some have even less than others. The meeting of two souls, twin desires in a sea of secrets, is a struggle for trust and meaning.





	1. Macabre Artist, I

She opens her eyes, blinking rapidly in response to the sudden attack of light on her pupils. She raises a hand to shield her eyes but cold hands catch it midway.

Startled, she looks down to see a pale, beautiful face. Onyx eyes follow her intently, the life within them like embers glowing through crevices of dusky ash. His hands tighten around her wrists and the icy imprisonment jolts her into wakefulness.

Her breath catches, but the violence dims. He raises her hands to his lips and kisses them.

She's mesmerised. His lips are pale, smooth as marble and cold as his hands. They contrast with the bluish veins at the back of her rough hands, and she wonders why such a creature is kneeling at her feet, pressing his lips against each of her chapped fingers.

By virtue of his perfection, he should be a statue. A dream. But those coal eyes dance brightly to the rhythm of the fire behind him - too full of life, too real.

"Do you know why I haven't drained you dry yet?" he murmurs, so quietly that she can barely hear him over the crackling fire.

She hears the words but they don't register.

A noise escapes the back of her dry throat as she straightens, leaning towards him in an effort to understand. There is a heaviness in her head and it weighs down her limbs.

"You don't remember," he says.

His voice tugs a thread within her. It tightens coils and levers until more and more threads hum and animate. His every muscle is poised in response to the tiniest of her movements. Even the rise and fall of his chest seems to match hers breath for breath.

To her mind he's a stranger, but her body has known him forever.

She softens in his hold, but he only grips her more tightly.

"Where am I?"

The room is dark save for the fireplace, and shadows spring and leap, suggesting the outline of furniture. It is too dark for her to see much. Her attention is drawn to where he is kneeling, taking in the antique designs on the rug.

He doesn't acknowledge her question. "Do you remember your name, dear girl?"

"Bella - Isabella," she says, relieved that her mind still retains that tendril of information.

"Bella," he says, the name rolling off his tongue with a quaint accent. "You'll come with me." His arms wind around her waist, lifting her effortlessly. She must have been sitting for a long time because when he sets her on her feet, she sways slightly.

"This way." His sure touch raises a question in her mind.

"Are you," she hesitates. But his eyes are instantly on her, so attentive that she feels encouraged. "Are you my husband?"

He studies her for a moment, his face impassive. Just when she thinks he will not answer, he touches her cheek. "You can put it that way, if you like." He sounds pleased, and he leaves her no time to meditate his meaning. "Come."

She obeys, the arm around her waist her only guide. There is no light. But he walks confidently enough so she presses close, trusting him not to let her fall. Suddenly he laughs; a quiet humourless laugh tinged with an emotion she can't pinpoint.

"Aren't you a special one?" he murmurs, tilting her face up, fascination in his eyes. His hands are wintry cold against her jaw, but strangely comforting. "I wonder how long I can keep you."

She doesn't know what possesses her to say her next words. Maybe it's the intensity in his eyes. Maybe it's the odd attachment she feels.

"As long as you want to."

The hand moves to her neck, caressing. "Bella." He isn't calling her. He's testing the feel of it on his tongue. His lips find the cleft above her clavicles, tasting her skin and she becomes boneless in his arms.

"Bella," he repeats, and she feels the syllables vibrate through her being. His words echo in her ears, and it's as though the rest of her world fades away.

"Open your eyes."

The command makes her eyes snap open, makes her realise that she's leaning all of her weight against him. She struggles to stand but he envelops in his strong arms, looking down at her with an unfathomable expression.

"Sorry." The apology comes out thick. Her throat feels as though it has been stuck together. "I'm so tired."

"Do you want me to make it go away?" he asks softly.

"Make what go away?"

"Everything. The tiredness, the pain, the sorrow. I could help you sleep forever."

"Sleep... forever?"

His voice is so sensual, and the offer sounds enticing even as its meaning spins and blurs like everything else.

"Yes, dear girl. Do you want to sleep forever?"

She feels his hand against her throat, caressing again, and this time she understands.

"Only if you don't want me anymore, husband." Her voice is quiet from exhaustion.

The hand leaves her throat, finding her hair.

"I really shouldn't," he murmurs. His fingers trace her eyelids. "Sleep then, Bella."


	2. Macabre Artist, II

She doesn't sleep. She only looks at him with those wide eyes – a lovely young girl in his monster embrace.

A world ago, Edward wouldn't have touched her for fear of tainting her innocence. He would've run. He would've fought his monster. Perhaps he would've courted her as a sated lion would a guileless lamb, harmless curiosity that would at most raise the hackles on her skin before he melted into the night, a nightmare never again to be seen.

But that part of him is gone. It had died with his family.

He takes her outside, not wanting to soil his house with the miserable stench of blood.

Hers sings to him, and Aro's wretched words stir in his memory.

 _La cantante_.

The singer. The undeniable lure of a human's blood. It is a delicacy that most vampires long to encounter in their immortal life to taste something of such pure bliss.

But he has no interest in her blood, any more than he has interest in anything else in the world – mortal or immortal.

The dark sky reflects his mood and it begins to rain.

Little patters of water, falling onto his skin, breaking into a million pieces. He can see their reflection in each tiny drop before they fall, joining the liquid that runs in the the earth, giving force to the living.

Not the undead.

Never the undead. His invincibility is a mere illusion because there is no god for him. No help. No heaven, only eternal damnation. His kind reigns supreme on this plane, because it is their only world. After that, there is nothing.

Nothing at all.

He'd watched, when they burned Carlisle.

The guards left him with no alternative as they pinned him down and turned his face, even as he thrashed and screamed in rage and grief.

Esme's destruction was the worst. It was anguish in its purest form, to watch her try to be brave for his sake. She'd looked at him then – wanting to say something, but someone's hand curved around her mouth, snapping her jaw. He saw the agony in her eyes, and then he smelled only the familiar, sickly perfume.

The scent of his family was the same as any other, despite their abstinence from blood. The pale purplish smog had risen, unfurling its wings and stretching out into the sky where it vanished.

His cheeks are wet, but the tears are not his.

Just the rain.

Warm fingers touch his face.

It's her. She's been so silent that he's almost forgotten that he brought her out here to kill her, like he'd killed the dozens of others offered to him.

Her warm brown eyes are filled not with fear but with pain. It's almost like she feels the constant, hollow throbbing in his chest – which is absurd – because how could a young girl, a human girl no less, be capable of feeling _his_ pain?

Still , she seems to. The sky's tears slide of his face, dripping on to her cheek, mixing with her warm ones.

Has she finally realised her fate?

"Why are you crying, dear girl?" he murmurs, tenderly wiping the wetness from her cheek with his thumb – a futile action as more drops fall.

He intends to kill her, but he sees no need to be cruel. She doesn't need to know. He can play along to her illusion of their marriage before he snaps her neck or crushes her skull – whichever one his hands are closer to – and so quickly that she would die without having to feel a single flash of pain.

He can be gentle until the very end.

"I don't know," she replies. "I just... I _feel_ —" Her warm, frail hand tightens on his granite arm.

"What?"

He moves closer, until their foreheads are touching, the perfume of her blood singing to him – sweet torture, _la sua cantante_ – and murmurs, "What do you feel?"

The girl with is gifted with a silent mind – the thing had compelled him to spare her life and brought them to this very predicament. It is his fault, utterly, and he owes her a painless death.

She sighs and shifts closer, and what happens next is so beyond his comprehension that he does not think to move away.

She kisses him.

Violently, he flinches back as though she has burned him. The scent of her blood is overpowering, a screaming temptation to his starving body that throws him momentarily off kilter.

Her fragile body hits the wet ground, soil seeping into the dirtied dress and she looks up at him with those infuriatingly wide eyes, a trembling hand hovering over her lips.

It shouldn't be normal for a human to want to touch him – such a monster as himself with his tainted soul – and he thinks he seems the deception in her eyes.

Innocent?

A damsel's demeanour to tug at his heartstrings, siren blood to prey on his weakness and a silent mind to rouse his curiosity. A seductress from his own personal hell – an irresistable lure. A trap.

He grips the front of her dress, ripping it as he drags her roughly to her feet.

"Who sent you here?" His voice is cold.

She doesn't cry out or fight him, remaining pliant in his grasp, and it eases his distrust. Perhaps she's truly innocent – a simple pawn in somebody else's game. He softens, his fingers curling around her breakable scalp, coaxing and gentle once more. "Who sent you here, dear girl?" He has to know. "Tell me. It's okay." _I will make your death quick_. One squeeze, and he would crush the delicate bone.

Her heartbeat quickens, her pupils entirely dilated.

"S-sent me here?"

Her breath mists in the cold.

"Yes." He manages to keep the anger out of his voice. It isn't her fault after all – this feeble human girl intruding upon his seclusion.

"I don't know." The sound that escapes her throat is a whine – weak, pleading – and she shivers, a hand over her breasts as she struggles to hold what remains of the dirtied dress around her waist.

The last of his patience evaporates.

"Do you know what I am?" His nostrils flare. He's tired of the game. He will end it now – answer or no answer. After fifty odd years, he doesn't think he can endure the maddening smell of her blood much longer.

She's so still, so pale that he thinks she will faint – a god-given mercy, perhaps, one that he wishes for himself, that lull of unconsciousness, the peace and the darkness the follows – but then she speaks.

"A man?" Her answer is timid and she looks almost bewildered as she scrambles to find another answer at his expression of disbelief, keen on satisfying his demand. "I'm sorry..." she stammers.

He realises then that she isn't afraid of him – not truly. Afraid of displeasing him, perhaps, afraid of his reaction. But she doesn't possess the natural fear that others of her kind usually do. For some reason, this simple innocence makes him even more incensed.

She shrinks at his obvious displeasure.

"I'll leave," she whispers. "I won't bother you..."

The rain falls harder and her wet hair plasters against her cheeks, her neck, the dampness sending her fragrance blooming in the air and needles of pain burning down his throat.

He can't let her leave.

Not because of his thirst, but because he can't let her wander back into the superstitious village that has banished her. He'd seen the horrors of what the villagers had done to those he'd returned; he'd seen the bloodied corpses before they were burned beyond recognition.

The villagers believe the returnees to be reincarnations to possessed by evil – that the gruesome treatment was the only way to purify their sins and free their souls. It is kinder for him to finish her now.

And yet when he looks into the soft brown of her eyes, he can't bring himself to extinguish the life within them.

He breaks eye contact and exhales slowly.

"Get inside."


	3. Macabre Artist, III

He holds the door open without looking at her, but she doesn't go in. Her chest throbs and she can't help but rub at it, trying to ease the discomfort.

"You're cold," he says. "Get out of the rain." There's no hostility in his voice this time and she obeys, holding her dripping dress and shuffling into the warm hearth.

He doesn't follow her.

"There are clothes upstairs," he says through the roaring rain. Then before she can speak, he closes the door, leaving her alone inside.

It's pouring heavily and she quickly picks up the jacket she sees hanging on the stand. But when she opens the door to give it to him, it's as though he's vanished.

She draws a breath to call him, but realises she doesn't even know his name.

Feeling uneasy, she closes the door and hangs the jacket back slowly.

She's all alone. She doesn't know who she is. She doesn't know who she's with. A million question rushes through her mind as she stands, frozen, until her body starts to shiver and she realises how cold she feels.

The crackling fire is the only thing that gives her heat and light, but she can't stand there in her wet clothes forever. Cautiously, she feels her way through the dark room and up the stairs.

The cabinet is dusty, and its hinges creak as though no one has opened it for a long time. There are a couple of dresses inside – old-fashioned, heavy, and she struggles with the buttons and strings, unable to tie them together. She gives up and turns to leave, but something flutters down from the top of the cabinet.

In the fading rays of twilight, she sees that it's a photograph.

A tiny black-haired girl smiles cheekily at the camera, her arms squeezing a bronze-haired boy and blond boy crouching on her either side. Behind them stands a beautiful, but rather disgruntled-looking girl whose beau drapes both arms around her waist, grinning broadly.

Bella looks at the last two on the far left of the picture, pride on their faces as they link hands – a tall, older man with a kindly-looking woman.

 _What a beautiful family_.

As she studies the faces again, she realises with a shock that the bronze-haired boy is... her husband. She feels odd using the word – she hardly knows him. He's smiling in the photo – glowing with such happiness that he's almost unrecognisable.

Suddenly feeling as though she's intruding, she hastily puts the picture back into the cabinet and makes her way downstairs.

She peeks out the window and realises that he's back.

He's a lone figure outside, sitting on the porch, drenched with rain. He looks like he'd rather be left alone, but the ache in her chest returns, urging her to comfort him. She approaches him, draping a towel gently around his shoulders, but he only takes it off and gives it back to her.

"I don't want you to touch me," he says.

His words aren't angry, or even unkind. They're simply devoid of emotion, as though he has nothing left inside of him.

She kneels down next to him. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. Just go inside."

There it is again – the deadness, followed by the dull throbbing within her own heart.

She reaches out to touch his arm, but he catches her wrist before she can, gripping it and lowering it slowly to her side. "I told you," he tells her, slightly breathless. "Don't touch me."

His voice is a whisper, but his eyes are maddened. His hand still holds hers in an iron grip. She should be terrified of those eyes, she should be screaming, but instead she's enthralled. His gaze pins her to the spot, neither of them breathing, and her blood sings in her ears, anticipating...

A clap of thunder snaps them both out of their reverie, and his grasp slackens.

"Why don't we go inside and get something for your wrists?"

His quiet question makes her blink, and at first she doesn't understand. He hadn't hurt her – hadn't bruised her. But when she looks down at her wrists, she realises that there are other markings on them – abrasions and scrapes. She touches them gingerly, wondering how they got there.

"And your back too."

He leads her inside, turning her around so that she can see herself in the floor-length mirror on the opposite wall.

Long, dark bruises peek between the open bindings of her dress.

His cold hands trace through the gaps, lightly touching the marred, tender skin and she shivers.

"What did they do to you, dear girl?"

She looks up at him, feeling vulnerable. "I don't remember."

He leaves her standing in front of the mirror, and she hears a light scratch followed by a soft hiss. He's lighting the lamps in the room. The warm glow helps her relax, and he sits her down, wordlessly undoing her clumsy attempts to tie the dress. He tugs the the material down so that she's bare from the waist up and she holds the towel to her front, feeling self-conscious.

"What do you remember?"

His voice is soft, his touch is soft, and her anxiety ebbs. She trusts him implicitly, even though she doesn't know him, doesn't know where she is, doesn't know if he's the one who'd blemished her.

"I remember my name," she says. Her eyes dart to his face, but he's not looking at her, busy applying the ointment. "But I don't remember yours."

"Edward."

"Edward," she repeats, and he finds it strangely pleasing to hear someone utter his name after nearly a century of seclusion.

He's finished coating the medicine, but the sight of her body beckons to him. It's been so long since he'd been this close to a sentient being he doesn't intent to kill.

He runs a thumb lightly down her back, feeling each vertebra as she moves, its natural curvature shifting. He feels the quiet swelling of her ribs as she takes in each breath, and feels it sink with each gentle expulsion. She's so fragile – her bones like glass. So warm. Her pulse beats under the thin sheet of pale skin, fragrant blood rushing, blooming through the bruises – the broken vessels of cooled blood releasing its dull perfume into the air.

"Edward?"

Her soft, feminine voice vibrates from her chords. He hears the little sounds as she swallows nervously, the rasp of bones rubbing as she tilts her head, and that steady, wet thrumming of her heart. Human bodies were so much less efficient, so much less quiet than his vampire one.

But it was their imperfection, their evanescence that he found beautiful. The constant thudding of her heart, the little clicks of her joints, the ever-changing tapestry of her skin. Her fragility.

"Beautiful," he tells her.

"What?" She sounds uncertain, but he sees the telltale crimson creeping up her neck.

"You," he says. "You're beautiful."

He runs his thumb down her back again, feeling each bump of her spine before his hands rest on her supple hips. She shivers again and he feels the quiver. It's thrilling – this twisted intimacy. It's thrilling how careful, how gentle he has to be not to break her. She doesn't even know how completely at his mercy she is. How helpless.

He looks at their reflection in the mirror, suddenly understanding why some of his kind choose to keep human pets. Amidst the loneliness of eternity, human company is soothing to unmated vampires. There's no fear of murder – not that Edward fears death.

In fact, it's something he welcomes.

He pulls up the gown, closing the fastenings nimbly before he turns her around. She doesn't resist – not that she can. She's trusting. Obedient. Ideal.

Why shouldn't he indulge before succumbing to hell?

He can feel it approaching; after all, he's denied himself sustenance for decades. He can teach her to fend for herself. And before he dies, he'll set her free. It's a good arrangement – he can even imagine Carlisle's hesitant nod.

"I've decided to keep you," he tells her.

She looks confused, but he doesn't elaborate, only smears more medicine onto her wrists before dressing them. The skin is simply chafed but he doesn't want to risk himself slipping.

"Thank you," she says.

When she takes his hands, unexpected warmth lights in the middle of his chest. Her hands slide up his arms, coming around his waist to embrace him. The warmth climbs, melting the coldness marginally and he trembles.

It's too much.

She's too much, her blood is too much.

"I told you not to touch me," he snaps. He holds his breath, pushing her away more roughly than he means to. She stumbles back, stunned, and he closes his eyes.

"It's late. Why don't you get some rest?"

Her scent. It's all over his clothes, all over the cushions and now all over the bed too. He doesn't trust himself to stay so he exits, keeping a distance away.

There's an odd tingling – remnants of the warmth and he beats it into submission. He can't afford to start feeling again – not if he wants to retain some measure of sanity.

There's a creak as she turns on the bed, and he hears her move a few more times before her breathing slows. Edward sits up on the bough and watches the moon, retreating into the quiet place within his mind. Another moonrise, and soon, another sunrise. And then another, and another. It was only a matter of waiting.

But his attention is stolen by another creak.

She's awake.

There's no stumbling, no sound of the lamp being lit, but he hears faint, wet scratchings. What is she doing? He listens, but doesn't move. The movements are quick and he decides she's agitated. He would give her privacy-

Blood.

He smells it – fresh and intense – and it jolts him to his senses, awakening his monster. Edward's hand flies to his burning throat, stopping his breath.

Is the girl hurting herself?

In a flash he's reentered the house. He's right – she hasn't lit the candles and the scent of blood is so overpowering he stumbles back, breaking some of the china on the fireplace.

He sees her upstairs, standing stock-still – her fingers moving unnaturally fast, smudging blood onto the wall.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

She doesn't respond.

"Girl."

He ascends with difficulty, his instincts screaming, and grips her shoulders, shaking her.

"Bella," he tries her name, but she looks beyond him, her eyes yawning chasms, and she reaches behind him to paint more of her blood, her focus frightening in its intensity.

She's ruining her fingers.

He slaps her lightly, and when she doesn't react, harder. There's a pink handprint on her cheek and he doesn't want to hurt her.

Carefully, he takes her wrists, ignoring her thrashing, and presses her against the opposite wall. She's screaming bloody murder now, writhing as though he's tormenting her.

The shrillness hurts his ears, and the scene is horribly reminiscent of his vigilante days, except now _he's_ the monster. And the monster in him does relish the hunt, the trapping of prey.

 _Bite_ , it taunts him.

"Quiet!" He's not sure if he's speaking to her or himself. " _Stop!_ "

Her screaming is driving him insane – egging his monster – and he reaches to smother her, but she's already stopped, becoming limp. She's breathing hard – he's not breathing at all – and her tear-filled eyes are wide as they watch him.

Then they slide to the wall behind him and she screams again – this time a faint, horrified cry that she quickly muffles.

He whips around, and a chill runs down his spine as he sees what she's seen.

The bloodstains aren't merely haphazard lines. It's a gruesome sketch of her – and she's dead.


	4. Inhabitants of the Night, I

The image is drawn in blood, every detail painstakingly smudged to resemble reality.

It is so real that for a moment, all she can do is stare—stare at her closed eyes, the gaping wounds in her neck and the awkward bend of her joints, all etched on the wall in crimson.

She doesn't know how it came to be there, only that it's there, and that nobody should ever see themselves that way. She's shaking so badly that she's only standing because of his iron grip.

His proximity brings her comfort, but it's clear that his feelings are anything but comforting.

He's furious.

The next thing she knows, he's dragging her down the stairs, out of the house and into the darkness. She feels the wetness of the grass under her feet and mud stains her dress, making it heavy. She stumbles but he only continues to pull her along rapidly, his cold hand like shackles around her arm.

When he finally stops, they're at a meadow.

She sees him turn his head under the full moon, drawing a quick breath from a passing breeze.

"Who are you?" he demands.

She doesn't understand his question. Her silence infuriates him and he shakes her roughly. "Answer me!"

His grip hurts, and she's still too shocked to speak.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" he presses. His breathing is uneven, his eyes unnaturally bright. "The Volturi sent you here, didn't they?"

She just stares at him, knowing that she's unable to give him an answer he wants.

"I should kill you," he hisses. "You've proven yourself a traitor – another ploy to torment me."

His rage awakens the odd threads within her, and she jerks out of her daze, suddenly wanting nothing more but to pacify him. "I'm sorry," she begins in a small voice, "It wasn't my intention-..."

"It wasn't your intention!" he scoffs and then he picks up her wrist—his light touch incongruent to his ire—shaking her bleeding fingers in the air. "You smear my home with blood! And you dare tell me it isn't your _intention_!"

His words make no sense to her. And yet her fingers bleed, her memories are deficient and the bloody image of her dead self still burns clearly in her mind. One of them is a lunatic, and if all the signs are true, it's not him.

"I'm sorry," she repeats quietly, staring down into the mud. "Maybe you're right. I can't remember a thing."

He's silent, and she's sure that he's disgusted with her. Her already dismal mood darkens, and she's too exhausted to lift her head. He hasn't spoken, but she's acutely aware of his presence. She knows, without looking up, that he's still standing before her, rooted to the spot like a statue.

Edward is reeling.

He's furious at his near loss of control and he's furious at Carlisle for imparting in him the awareness of human feeling. He would've lived perfectly well as a mindless killer but because of Carlisle, he's now forever trapped in no man's land—unable to truly resist, yet unable to deny his nature.

He's also furious at the girl for awakening the emotions he'd numbed for nearly a century. With the anger came the grief, the hatred... the compassion—the damned compassion.

It's impossible for him to kill her now.

Her gentleness reminds him too much of the family—families—he'd lost. Once as a human, and then as a vampire. How easily they'd lured him into this trap. They'd known her mind would intrigue him, that she would break his deadened shell. It would kill his last shred of self to end her—it would be a rejection of the very value his family had fought for. Because now she is no longer a nameless, meaningless collateral to him, more than doomed prey.

So here he stands, unable to bring himself to end her, even though it's clear after tonight that she's been planted here. Who else would know how to pull his strings at exactly the right place to prolong his last moments—moments that should've been peaceful?

He kneels down, tilting her face up so that she's meets his gaze.

"Tell your master the answer is _no_ ," he says quietly.

She doesn't answer and her misery is clear despite her silence. Of course she's miserable. The Volturi sent her here with the expectation that he would torment her for answers. And if he sends her back... He remembers her bruises. It seems that only death awaits this girl, whether he sends her away or not. The image she's drawn—or been instructed to draw,regardless of her denial—is an apt description of her fate.

"Gi—Bella," he forces himself to use her name. Maybe it's the last time she'll hear it. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

He studies her, disconcerted by her instant attentiveness. She should be in shock. Her blood having taunted him, he has dragged her here in the darkness. She's marked with bruises and she hasn't drunk or eaten—it never crossed his mind—and if she'd been truthful, she has no memories.

It is testament to her loose grip on reality that she's taking this in as though it were normal. Still, she's shivering, her body telling her what her mind doesn't know.

The last thing he wants is to touch her but it's clear she needs it if he wants her to be in any condition to leave. Humans are creatures made for love, unlike vampires who are designed for murder. He's a poor substitute, but there's no one else. And so he reaches out, carefully and in a gesture that feels utterly foreign to him, he takes her his arms.

She's soft. Warm. He has an inexplicable urge to hold her more tightly but he resists. Breakable, as he constantly reminds himself. She softens into his embrace easily and he realises how different it feels to hold her than it is to be held by her. His body isn't rebelling against the touch, and he feels her softness in its entirety. The beating of her heart vibrates through him—her heat melting more of the ice inside him and bringing a paradoxical mixture of pain and relief.

Even the rage subsides.

He's shocked at what the simple touch is doing to him and at the same time the flicker of peace coursing through him entices him to close his eyes.

"Edward."

Her mellow voice breaks through the last of his defences, and he suddenly can't bear to let her die, the Volturi be damned.

Running a gentle hand down her back, coaxing her into calm, he whispers, "Be still."

And then he turns and makes his way towards the prisoners of the forest.


	5. Inhabitants of the Night, II

She tries to rise but strong arms come around her, lifting her, and she turns to assure herself that it's really him. He'd shown such distrust, such anger that she never would've thought he would touch her willingly.

But he's surprisingly tender. It seems almost like there are two people within him—this kind, gentle man and the angry, pained creature he'd turned into when she'd tried to kiss him.

"You need food," he tells her quietly. "Water. Rest. And then I'll help you leave."

Edward makes his way soundlessly through the long grasses, stiffening at the slightest noise. He has never ventured this far from his makeshift home—never saw any need or use of it—and his every sense is on high alert. He's not afraid of the strange humans or even the Volturi—no, he's afraid for her.

In the beginning, when his hearing hadn't yet dulled from his blood abstinence, he'd heard noises from this village. Lurid, worrisome noises in the lull of the night when humans usually rested. And then in the morning, the noises would cease, and he would hear stillness like death itself.

The noises are no longer audible to him from this distance but he isn't completely ignorant to the fact that there is something very wrong with the inhabitants of this village. Prey presented to him had disjointed, repetitive thoughts he originally believed to be caused by poison.

Tonight, he reawakens—his mind raw and sharper than it has been for a long time. He puts the pieces together and he knows that he's far from being the only monster around.

From the shadows, he sees them now, clearly.

Under the moonlight, the place is teeming with life. People walk, carrying the bare branches of firewood that they stack onto the middle of the collection of circular houses. They could've been night workers, only Edward notices that there is something odd about their movements—jerky and mechanical—and their eyes are deadened.

For the first time, he hears snippets of their minds, and their thoughts are exactly like victims they'd offered to him—a chorus of repetition in the likes of which he'd never experienced in sound minds.

_The nest, we must build the nest before dawn._

_Thirsty, so thirsty..._

_Nest. Shelter. Must build..._

"Edward?" Even without him telling her, she knows to whisper. "Where are we going?" Her arms tighten around his neck as her eyes follow the scuttling villagers.

"You need sustenance," he tells her. "And I have none to offer."

"Sustenance?" She sounds uncertain.

He shushes her as they draw closer to the cursed village. He's cursed too, just like them, but she doesn't need to know that. She's different. She doesn't possess the glazed, wild-eyed look of the people that live within that community.

This place is a means to break him, the invisible circle surrounding the forest a way to force him to start consuming—the sacrifices a temptation to his growing thirst. But he would never give in. Never.

She's an outsider. He recognised that from the first moment he'd set eyes on her.

He'll do his damnedest to get her out of the place, even if it means setting foot in the Village of the Night. He would never let the most important detail on the wall come to fruition; the tiny, crescent-shaped mark would never make its way to her skin.

She has already started smelling like its residents. He has to find her exit soon.

A niggling thought crosses his mind.

What if they cursed the staples? The food, once consumed, would trap her here forever like Persephone in the Underworld.

But his worries are unfounded. As he flits from house to house, searching for food, for water, the cabinets are yawning and empty, many even filled with cobwebs as thick as the ones in his own home.

He has no choice.

Still carrying her, he comes into view. Every single soul freeze at the sight of him, and then they're running—shrieking.

With the girl held securely in one arm, he catches one of the scampering inhabitants, holding him back easily as he continues to scream, struggling and writhing uselessly.

He presses the man against the wall, a threatening hand against his throat.

"Where do you keep your food?"

_No food... socorro... por favore..._

"Water?"

_Wa... ter?_

The man is useless. Completely useless. His skin is waxy, his eyes bereft of anything except greed and hunger.

The moment Edward lets him go, he makes a sudden lunge for Bella, his eyes wild, his teeth bared. It's a decision driven by impulse but Edward catches it in time. Covering Bella's eyes to shield her from the violence, he strikes, sparing no strength to protect the innocent girl.

The man falls, his expression ravenous as he stares at Bella. "Mor...te," he gurgles, scarlet trickling down the corners of his lips. He dies with his eyes open.

Edward's hand remains over Bella's eyes as he steps away from the fresh corpse, retreating into the shadows.

"Edward?" She sounds fearful. "What happened? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Edward lies. "Keep your eyes closed. There's nothing for you to see here."

"Edward—"

"Be silent, Bella."

His voice is sharper than he intends—the result of his apprehension—and she falls silent instantly. Edward removes his hand, thinking he has upset her but she shuts her eyes, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

He traces his thumb across her cheek, wanting to soothe but suddenly realising how empty the village has become—its disturbing inhabitants eerily still. Edward tucks her closer to him, slinging a protective arm over her body, and withdraws into a deserted hut.


	6. Inhabitants of the Night, III

He puts her down to bolt the door and draw the heavy curtains shut but when he turns she's still silent, her eyes tightly-closed. He smells no tears but he no longer trusts his blunted senses.

"You can open your eyes now," he says softly. "You're safe."

It isn't entirely true. She should fear him, she should fear the cursed residents, but the truth will not help her.

She opens those familiar brown eyes and his concern ebbs when he finds them dry.

"How do you feel?"

She gazes at him mutely, her expression stiff.

"Are you all right?"

Her luminous eyes speak volumes but she remains abnormally silent.

He leans in, touching her cheek, trying to decipher her odd countenance. "Bella. Talk to me, please."

Almost immediately, the tension dissolves and her face relaxes. "I'm fine," she tells him quietly. "Thank you, Edward."

Suspicion creeps up his spine, cold and unpleasant.

As he studies her, he finds her attentiveness unnerving. Her eyes follow his every motion, so penetrating and keen that he feels bare. This time, he matches her intensity, his misgivings growing.

"You're upset."

She speaks before he can. She reaches out to touch him but then pulls back her hand, as though compelled by a force beyond her comprehension.

The sweet perfume of her blood drifts into the air, stronger than ever, and he realises that her fingers are still bleeding openly.

A tiny droplet forms on the surface of her skin, pooling at the tip of one finger before it splashes onto the tiles, wasted. The sight, the smell... they make his mouth fill with venom but his monster is safely locked away.

"You wanted to touch me," he says, ripping a strip of cloth from his shirt. "Why didn't you?"

She licks her lips, her gazed fixated on him as he comes closer. "I'm not sure."

He binds her fingers, but the blood seeps through the cloth, the scent like hot knives to his parched throat. He breathes nonetheless, forcing himself to acclimatise, and he pulls the bindings so tight that they must hurt her. But she shows no signs of pain.

"Earlier, you wanted to speak. Why didn't you?"

"I did speak," she says in a faraway voice, her breathing uneven as she stares at him.

"Only after I asked you to." The sheer force of her focus, the way those brown eyes drink him in... he intuits something behind them, an answer just beyond his grasp.

"That's right," she breathes. "I spoke because you asked me to."

"And you couldn't speak because..." The realisation strikes like lightning but his lips struggle to form the outlandish words. "Because I told you to be silent."

They've corrupted her will.

She nods, eager to please, unaffected by the gravity of his statement. "Anything you want."

Revulsion fills him. He's sickened by what they've done to her.

But when he pulls away, hurt flits over her expression—she believes his disgust to be meant for her. Her bound fingers twitch, as though she wishes to reach for him. She can't, of course, because he's unwittingly forbidden her from doing so.

It's better for her if she doesn't and so he holds his tongue, letting the directive stand. She mustn't get attached to him.

He strides towards the window, peering through the gap in the curtains, sifting through the possibilities in his mind, now complicated by her predicament.

"It's best to venture out in the morning," he says. "Can you wait?"

She must be famished and exhausted. The circles under her eyes are darker than they were a few hours ago. But she holds herself with poise, no trace of fatigue in her graceful posture.

"Of course," she says agreeably. "There's no need to rush."

Her guilelessness twists his heart as he wonders if obedience is her only alteration.


	7. Stranger Creatures, I

She's been standing there for hours like a shadow, unmoving and soundless save for the quiet whoosh of her breath and the steady thudding of her heart.

After another hour of waiting for her to tire, his tolerance wanes.

He turns. "Will you not sleep?"

"I'm not tired."

Despite her increasing pallor, she seems to have grown only more alert as the night progresses. Her pose, though relaxed, puts in his mind that of a waiting predator. After all, her apparent inability to defy his words notwithstanding, she's been planted here by the Volturi. The Originals.

Her humanity has been suspect to him since his observation of her macabre art, but now he's certain. Her immobility is unnatural. And yet she breathes. Her heart beats.

_What is their purpose?_

It would've been child's play to end him in his current condition. One of the Sworn would be enough.

And yet they send a frail girl. It must be a game created to protract his misery. Or is it?

The thoughts race in circles within his mind, the uncertainty driving him wild. He wants to help her, but how? Has she been sent as a trap or another unsuspecting victim? Will his actions ultimately doom them both?

As he tries to settle on their next recourse, she shifts suddenly, the first time in hours. Her hand closes around a decorative knife hanging on the wall, and with a single-minded ferocity, she throws it.

For one shocking second, he thinks she's aiming for him, but the blade whistles past his face, shattering the glass and he hears an ear-splitting howl.

She's at his side, speaking urgently into his ear. "There's something out there. We have to go."

He smells it now—the rot.

It creeps through the broken window and he wonders why he hasn't sensed it earlier. Is she leading them to a trap? Has this been orchestrated?

"Edward, please, we must move."

Desperation drenches her face, but she makes no move to abandon him. She seizes a broken shard, wielding it like a weapon towards the creature at the window.

Edward snaps to his senses. "Stay behind m—..." he begins to say but there's a heavy thump at the door and it groans.

 _Thump_.

The wooden bolt curves at the pressure.

_Thump. Thump._

The sides are splintering and Edward takes Bella into his arms just as the wood gives way and a horde of glassy-eyed inhabitants spill into the room, their crooked fingers outstretched, the scent of rot overwhelming.

Their movements are feeble, weaker than a child's, but there are so many of them. Edward shoves the ones at the window away but they return like ants. Even if he kills one, two or three take its place, clambering to reach for the girl in his arm as though she's the answer to their starvation.

Trying to clear the way is a futile undertaking.

"Bella, hold on to me. Tuck in your arms—..."

Their nails and teeth dig uselessly into his unyielding skin and he forces his way through them, shielding her and wishing for a fraction of his original strength and speed instead of the laughable residue he possesses now.

"They want me," she says, not a hint of distress in her voice. Her expression is detached, calculating. "They don't want you. You should leave me."

His first thought is to tell her to be quiet but he bites back his tongue. He refuses to sway her will.

"I won't," he says instead.

"But—"

"I _won't_." In a sudden burst of strength he thrusts one of the stinking creatures at the others, clearing a path.

He tears across the empty space, the creatures following them. Their desperation makes them savage, persistent, and as fast as Edward runs, he knows he will reach the borders soon.

He hears the rush of water and knows he cannot proceed further. The invisible forces keeps him in—it keeps them all in. But she has a chance.

"Bella," he says, hearing the haunting, uneven footfalls of the approaching inhabitants. Hurriedly, he searches for an alternative. The river is moving too fast for her to swim across. Then his eyes slide to the long grasses on the opposite the bank. It will hurt but it is possible. "If I throw you across, do you think you can run?"

Her arms tighten around his neck. "Will you not come?"

Her question catches him off-guard. For some inexplicable reason, she's already become attached. She won't go if he doesn't.

"I'll catch up," he lies blatantly.

"Then I will stay."

He clenches his jaw. "Don't be foolish."

Unexpectedly, her lips curve into a faint smile. "On the contrary, Edward, I'm being intelligent by seeing through your deception."

Her eyes are brighter than ever, as though she's regaining herself, and her dry wit startles him. To his own disbelief, he finds himself mirroring her expression.

For the first time in nearly a century, Edward finds himself mildly amused.

Her wry countenance fades. "In all seriousness, I won't make it," she exhales, touching her shoulder gingerly, and redness stains the dress. There's a gash across her clavicle—she's been scratched.

When she takes her hand away, he notices that, despite the tight dressings, the bleeding on her fingers hasn't stopped. The cloth is slippery with blood and carefully, he unwraps one of her fingers. The wound is open, looking as fresh as it had hours ago, not a clot in sight.

Ice curls around the base of his stomach. If the events leading up to the present haven't convinced him, this does. The Originals have altered her, and he doesn't know what they've done or if he has the power to undo their tampering.


	8. Stranger Creatures, II

The footsteps are closing in from all directions and Edward tucks her close to him, ready to face the creatures.

The first rays of dawn breaks through the horizon.

Colours bleed through the sky, reds, oranges and yellows and lights shimmer, bouncing off the water.

Just like that, the scuttling stop. The creatures depart and Bella sags in his arms, breathless and more ashen than before.

She shields her eyes.

"Edward, could you please—" She gestures to the canopy and instinctively, he moves into the shade, laying her carefully atop the soft mosses.

"They're afraid of the sun," he says, gazing in the direction of the ghastly creatures. "We should destroy their nest while it's bright."

"We should."

"What are they?" he mutters, more to himself than to her.

"Undesirables," she blurts.

He looks at her sharply. "You know what they are?"

She nods slowly, her eyes unfocused. She seems even more sickly than she was a few minutes ago, her condition deteriorating rapidly. "They're Undesirables," she mumbles. "Undesi...ra...bles."

Her words are garbled, her eyes half-shut and his wariness is temporarily quelled by his concern. At the same time, there's so much blood, the smell so enticing and undeniably sweet that his monster wakes, pounding its steel cage.

 _She's already dying, why not take her_?

He swallows the venom, taking a moment to steady himself, hating what he is.

A sheen of sweat gleams on her forehead and she curls further into the depths of the shadows, covering her face.

The dress is torn from their escape and her fidgeting causes it to slip, revealing an alarming sight.

The dark bruises on her back—they're spreading, nearly covering two-thirds of available surface. But how? No one has struck her and as furious as he'd been in the meadow, he knows that he was in control. The markings—they aren't his doing. What are they?

"Does this hurt?" Very lightly, he traces a finger across the discolouration.

"A little." Her voice is muffled under her hands.

His intuition flares and unexpected affection surges through him as he brushes back her hair. Leaning down, he whispers, "You're not the only one capable of detecting deception, dear girl."

She chuckles, but he can see that the motion hurts her injuries. "I'm supposed to be a good liar."

His mood darkens. "Is that so? What else are you supposed to be?"

She peers at him between her fingers. "The memories—they're coming back in pieces."

"Tell me what you remember."

"It's not that simple..." she murmurs. "I remember images... maybe a word or two." She clears her hoarse throat and he recalls her need for sustenance.

He guides her to a sitting position. "Do you want to drink?"

Her eyes light up but then dulls when he presents the water captured within a folded leaf. He tilts his head, not understanding her dissatisfaction and, observant as ever, she notices. She takes it with both hands, kissing his with something akin to reverence.

"Thank you."

She's delirious. "It's just water, Bella."

"Is it?" She seems hopeful as she raises it to her lips, as though she were expecting something more. After a small sip, he sees the disappointment crashing over her and her attempt to disguise it. She hands the water back to him barely touched.

He's confused. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she murmurs, closing her eyes. "It's just... it's unpalatable."

He brings it close to his face, inhaling to see if the river has been tainted. But the water smells pristine. "It's water. Did you want something else?"

She doesn't answer, turning away from him.

He feels helpless and worse, thirsty. The rustle of leaves in the breeze catches his attention and he raises his head, seeing the brightening sky. It's a stunning sight—he has forgotten how beautiful nature can be.

"Bella," he says, touching her shoulder gently. "Look."

She doesn't move.

"Bella?"

She opens a bleary eye and then crawls to hide between the undergrowth. Her bizarre behaviour troubles him.

"What are you doing?"

She covers her head, as though shielding herself from harm. "It's too hot," she complains.

Edward's eyes dart back to the sky, where the morning light is dim and pleasant.

"It _hurts_." She sounds pained and he doesn't understand until he sees her skin redden and then smoulder, little wisps of smoke rising. For whatever reason, she can no longer bear the sun.


	9. Stranger Creatures, III

He covers her with his coat as he runs but he can still hear her uneven breathing. He could have found shelter in one of the isolated huts but he knows that its inhabitants will rise in the evening. He can't risk it.

When they reach his home, he slams the door, drawing all the curtains shut. But its impossible to block out all the sunlight. Even the slightest trace scalds her already blistered skin.

Edward curses before he yanks several floorboards from the ground, relieved to find an opening large enough to fit her. "Here."

To his incredulity, she shies away from it. "No."

"Don't you want to live?" he thunders, the sight of her peeling skin terrifying him.

She starts to cry. "I'm scared."

The sun rises higher, its beams brighter, and she's burning before his very eyes.

"Bella." His voice is surprisingly steady. "Get down here _now_."

She can't defy an imperative so direct.

With stilted, unnatural movements, she climbs in and lies down.

"I'll be right here, I promise," he says, giving her hand a quick squeeze. And then wasting no more time, he replaces the boards as she beats against the wood, sobbing for him to let her out.

He has never felt more like a monster for helping someone.

"Everything will be okay," he calls, dragging a thick mat over the wooden panels. "Calm down."

His words are unnecessary. She quietens the moment the mat fully covers the chinks between the panels. He hears her breathing slow and then deepen in the characteristic way of slumbering humans.

Relief washes over him but it's short-lived. The silence drags and he's alone with his thoughts once more. The apathy—his only defense—is gone. He fights them but before long, the grief and the rage return with a vengeance.

The Volturi destroyed his family. And now, when he's almost ready to join them in death, they bait and torment him with a hapless girl.

Edward slams his fist against the table.

The wood fractures, crunching, but the act brings him no respite.

Dying is his only way of gracing his family's memory.

His flawless memory is a source of misery—replaying their destruction so clearly, it's as though he's in the clearing with them again.

He hears their shouts, he remembers the last expression on their faces and he clenches his fists as decades of stifled emotions crash through him.

Carlisle's compassion killed him.

_What vampires are you that you feed on beasts? You shame us with your barbaric ways._

The Original's words had been mildly chastising. Edward saw the intent in her mind, he'd wanted to warn his father, but a simple gaze from the Original and he hadn't been able to move.

_You defy your nature, Carlisle._

She'd taken another step forward and, with her mind, she'd forced them all to their knees. Regarding them with cool scarlet eyes, she'd contemplated murder the way one would contemplate garment colour. Finally, she'd shrugged.

_Younglings._

The word was spoken with disdain and a touch of affection. She'd snaked an arm around one of her three lovers. _Aro. Accompany my feeding. Come. Marcus, you too._

It was the third lover, her least favoured, who'd vented his bitterness on Edward's family.

 _Disgraceful creatures,_ he'd said, once the others were gone. Under the guise of punishment, he'd destroyed Carlisle first. Esme, Emmett and Rosalie were ashes before the first lover returns in time to save Edward. He'd shaken his head.

_Caius, that was unnecessary._

His slight disapproval was nothing to Edward's crazed rage. He'd struck but Aro trapped his arms, restraining him with ease.

 _Look what you've done,_ _Caius,_ he'd clicked his tongue. _This one is brilliantly gifted. What do you say we make it up to you, young one? A place among the Sworn. In time, you'll come to see that it's worth more than your coven._

When Edward had snarled, trying in vain to kill him, he'd allowed Edward access to his mind, pacifying him as one would a child. _She sees your talent and she wants you as one of her Sworn. An extraordinary offer._

"I will never join the likes of you."

In the darkness, Edward repeats his century-old answer, reminding himself of his oath.

Marcus had chuckled with fondness unbefitting an evil creature. _What Lilith wants, she will eventually get._

And then they'd employed their ultimate weapon—time. They'd stretched Edward's torment across its vast expanse, patiently waiting for him to break. It's a battle of wills. For Carlisle's sake, for his family's sake, Edward will not give the depraved ancients what they want.

Faint noises arise from the floorboards—scratching and then whimpering.

It's an hour before sundown.

Quickly, Edward removes the mat and the boards. Her eyes are closed, her face deathly pale. The blisters have healed but the other wounds have not. A hand curls upwards in her sleep, as though she's having troubled dreams.

When he's sure that she will not burn, he lifts her out carefully, laying her amidst the cushions.

Her awakening is a sight to behold.

Her heartbeat strengthens; the colour returns to her face and fresh blood oozes through her wounds once more. She's stirring, her eyelids fluttering open and then she inhales deeply.

He brushes a strand of hair away from her face and she grasps his hand, shocked and disoriented.

"You're safe," he soothes, cradling her. "And you were very brave. It's over now."

He feels her blood wet his skin once more and wonders if it is blood she needs when it's blood she has.

"Tell me dear girl, how can I help you?"

She stares at him, spellbound, tugging his hand, and he obliges, bending down, letting her wrap her arms around him. She presses her face to his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin before she arches needily, her lips parting. It's when he sees it—the elongation of her upper teeth, two sharp points like that of a wolf.

He catches her jaw, his eyes narrowing as he puts a thumb between her lips, staring at the canine. He presses his finger against the sharp point and watch her eyes dilate.

She tries to jerk away but she's no match for his strength.

A sound escapes the back of her throat—she's unable to speak as he holds her mouth open. The tooth punctures vampire skin and venom pools on his finger, dripping onto her tongue.

She ceases struggling, her lips closing around his finger, her eyes focusing and unfocusing as though she's fighting with herself. Curiously, he traces her cheek. She's capable of breaking his skin. Its meaning is not lost on him.

"Feed," he orders, and her fight dies.

She licks his finger, kissing up his hand before sinking her teeth into his wrist, pulling the venom and taking it in great swallows.

He lets her take as much as she wants, his free hand threading through her hair, staggered by his discovery.

A venom-drinker.

But she can't be his predator—she's too weak.

Her tongue sweeps over his wrist and hungry eyes move to his neck as if in a trance. Has he tired the Originals after all? Is this their form of mercy—her death or his?

It's an easy decision.

"Take everything you need," he murmurs, guiding her lips to the base of his throat.


	10. An Unveiling

Her warm breath tickles his neck and he feels the graze of her teeth before they sink into his flesh. It's an odd sensation—there is no pain, only slight pressure.

She takes one long draw, another, and another, and slowly, he feels the energy draining from his already weak body until he doesn't have enough strength to draw a breath.

If her blood has sung to him before, now it bewitches him, an invitation so overpowering that he's barely sane.

She kisses up his neck, turning so that her thighs are on either side of his hips, soft, warm and alluring.

And then she does something unspeakable—she cuts her wrist.

Stunned, Edward tries to turn away but she shushes him, taking his face between her hands. She draws the blood into her mouth before she comes to him, pressing her stained lips to his. The first taste hits his tongue and his resolve shatters.

It's so sweet—the sweetest nectar he has ever tasted.

When she presses him to her neck, he's already drunk, his thirst raging, his mind a far cry from lucidity. He gives in to the instinct, trapping her in his arms before biting.

She gasps against him, jerking and then moaning. Even amidst the feeding frenzy, he sees that the venom brings her no pain—only pleasure.

The warmth of her life blood flows through him, spreading through his body and he feels an irresistible urge to fuck her. As though reading his mind, she opens for him, reaching down. She fists his cock, running her curved palm over the cool ridges, exploring, and he inhales sharply at the sensation.

"Edward," she whispers.

It's the way she says his name—the soft, affectionate way that reminds him of loved ones long lost. That single word jerks him out of the pleasurable haze.

He stands up so suddenly that she falls off his lap, sprawling to the ground, her eyes wide.

For a long, long moment, he doesn't say anything, doesn't even breathe as he fights to regain the tenuous hold he has over himself. The taste of her blood still lingers thickly and he swallows several times, clearing it, clearing his mind.

It must be minutes before he's sure that he's in control. All the while, the girl remains motionless, staring. The eyes, that face... they're so innocent that they almost deceive him. Almost.

All along, she'd known what he is, what the inhabitants are. She'd known what to do, and he'd played right into her trap.

He puts his hand on her throat and his face twists, exposing the ugliness he's endured. "I'll kill you." His lips form the words but his speech sounds choked, smothered on its way out.

She doesn't fight back. "You don't really want to kill me," she gasps.

"Don't I?" he snarls.

Somehow, she manages a weak smile. "If you did, I'd already be dead."

"You're right," he says, his fury cooling into something even more terrifying. "I don't want to kill you yet." He slants his head. "I'll make you suffer first."

"If that makes you feel better."

There is only servility in her eyes and, feeling repulsed, he lets her go. She regains her bearings remarkably fast. The markings caused by the pressure of his fingers are already fading away, leaving behind unblemished skin. But she doesn't run.

"Why are you still here?" His voice is deadened. The Originals have bested him. They've proven that he's a prisoner to his own nature.

"For you."

"I already know that," he spits. " _Why_ are you here? What do you want?"

"I want whatever you want." Her answers are meaningless, formulaic, and they madden him.

"Stop speaking in riddles and tell me the truth!" he snarls. His eyes spring to the windows, to the doors, apprehensive. Now that he has fed, something will change. Someone will come.

"I already am, Edward." She hesitates. "The problem is that you're not asking the right questions."

Her words cut through his misery and distress, infuriating him. "You find this funny, don't you?"

Her expression turns bleak. "Not at all."

He takes in her effortless poise, the lack of bruising on her skin and shoots the next question. "What are you?"

She nods approvingly, an acknowledgment that he has reached the pertinent points. "I'm your Acolyte," she answers. "I exist to ensure your wellbeing. You chose me when you offered your venom."

Ice drenches his insides. "I trapped you."

"No," she says instantly. "If you didn't choose me, I would've become one of the Undesirables."

"You knew all along," he says, angered. "You knew and you toyed with me."

"No. I tried to tell you," she says evenly, "As soon as I remembered..." She glances at her feet. "But I was so thirsty and you ordered me to feed. I thought you knew."

He can't help it. He laughs—a crazed sound. He condemned himself and he condemned _her_.

"I don't know anything," he says carelessly. "I don't know what an Acolyte is and I don't care. You can leave. I don't _want_ life, do you understand, girl?"

"I can't leave." For the first time, she's angry. "I'm your Acolyte and you're my Guide. You're bound to me as much as I'm bound to you. You sealed the bond when you gave me your venom!"

He doesn't respond.

"Acolytes are given to the Sworn to aid them. I've served four before you," she says, trying a different method. "If you no longer value your life, being one of the Sworn is the fastest way to lose it."

"You must be a piss poor Acolyte if the ones you served lost their lives."

The expression on her face is inscrutable. "If it pleases you to think so."

She's changed. Now that her memories are here, the trusting, helpless girl he'd come to know is gone. In its place is a hardened being.

"Tell me honestly," he says quietly. "Do you want to do this? Do you want to be my Acolyte?"

She stiffens, as though she's resisting, and then her lips form the words. "No."

He's relieved by her answer. It's the first normal response she's given him. "Then why try?"

A muscle tenses in her jaw. "It's easier to be compliant. Less painful."

He sags, any resentment he feels towards her fading. She's a prey of circumstance, just like him.

"Then be free. I don't want your protection."

She smiles wryly. "If only it were that easy." She steps closer, letting her innocent facade fall. "I like you, Edward. Hardship washes away false pretenses and you haven't struck me. So I'll tell you a secret. Do you know how I lost four Guides?"

Her brown eyes glitter in a disquieting way as he waits for her to continue.

"I made them love me," she whispers. "If they're not too far gone, if you satisfy the needs of their soul, even the twisted can love." She licks her lips. "I'm good at that. I'm good at giving them what they want... so that they give me what _I_ want."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I understand that you want nothing except the peace of the grave." She comes closer. "I can give you that."

"And what do you want in return?"

"I want to be free," she says simply. "I want not to listen to the likes of you or anyone else. I want to be able to spit in your faces when you tell me to do something, the nasty lot of you." Despite her acrid words, she smiles impishly, her eyes dancing.

He doesn't return her smile. There must be a catch, somewhere. There always is. "How can I free you?"

"Lilith's venom."

Edward leans back. "That's impossible."

"You can get it or you can die trying," she says. "If you free me, I promise to end you. Either way, you get what you want."

"Why don't you end me now? If I order you to—"

"That's the only order I cannot carry out," she says. "If I could harm my Guide, all of you would've been dead at my hands."

The Originals would not have been so careless in creating Acolytes. "And nothing happens to an Acolyte when their Guide dies?"

"Most Acolytes' souls are tied to their Guides so they die when their Guides die," she says, playing with a loose lock of hair. "But after my first attempt to take her venom, Lilith thought to punish me by giving me my _freedom_ as a weakening Undesirable until I find a new Guide. She finds it _amusing_ —the bitch." She says the word with such malice that he blinks.

She doesn't miss it. "I'm sorry. I don't believe I've been this rude in front of my Guide before," she says. "But since you hate her too, I suppose it does please you to hear me insult her. Enough small talk. Are we doing this?" She twines her hands together, waiting for his answer.

Edward deliberates and sees no other way out. "Fine. Just one thing, Bella. If you betray me, I will find you and I will make you regret it."

She tilts her head, smiling slightly. "Bella is dead. My name is Isa." His Acolyte reaches out and slips her hand into his. "I look forward to our time together."


	11. Reign of Terror, I

"I don't know why you care," she says, peering through the curtains. "It's not like they can hurt us."

But Edward has ceased trusting fate a long time ago. The Undesirables may not be the only ones here. Maybe the Originals have sent other creatures. Maybe they're waiting. "Do you sense anything?"

She glances back at him. "My strength derives from yours. If you don't sense anything, neither will I."

Edward feels much stronger but it's too little blood for too long a time. The sensation of being underwater has lifted from his hearing but it's a meager improvement.

"Let's go to the roof," he suggests. "That way we can see into the distance."

" _If_ something is out there, dangling out of a window is not advisable."

Edward ignores her jab. "The chimney, then."

Her shoulders stiffen and she turns away. "If you're that worried, why don't you stay here while I try the front door?"

"From above, we'll have the advantage of height and the element of surprise," he presses.

"No need. I'm itching to kill." She reaches for the kitchen knives but he holds out an arm, blocking her way. She doesn't push him away but she doesn't quite meet his gaze either.

The way she's shrinking away, he's seen it before.

"You don't like small spaces."

"I don't like many things."

She's trying to hide it and her indifference is impressive. But Edward's intuition has never failed him. He wants to know what's fuelling the rage she has tamed and reared inside the iron confines of her heart. So he pushes.

"You acted the same way when you were under the floorbo—"

"I told you, that wasn't _me_. That girl is dead. She's been dead for over a hundred years. So shall we focus on getting out or do you want to stand here and tell sob stories all night?"

Her eyes flash and her chest is heaving; for a very brief moment, she looks unexpectedly vulnerable. His acerbic reply dies at the tip of his tongue.

"You will not go through the front door," he only says. "Stay here while I survey the area."

He leaves her to scale the chimney but she grabs his arm suddenly, yanking him close. "If you want your orders properly obeyed, you're going to have to be more specific than that, Edward. Where is ' _here'_? And you never mentioned anything about the windows, did you?"

Her eyes gleam, and he's not sure whether she's helping him or mocking him.

"Make no attempt to leave the house until I tell you to."

"Much better." She releases his arm and returns to her watch at the window, unsmiling. Moonlight dapples her profile, casting a soft glow on the ripped, bloodied dress, and he finds himself beginning to trust her despite his misgivings.

He latches onto one brick, and then the next, moving so quickly that he reaches the top in a second. He surveys the perimeter, but his keen eyesight reveals nothing. The Undesirables have roused, but they remain within the Village of the Night. The adjoining lands are as deserted as always.

He climbs down again.

"And?"

"Nothing," he says. "We're free to leave if we can make it past the border."

"We will," she assures him.

His eyes sweep down, taking in her tattered clothing ones more, laces stained, the corset hanging off her hips.

"Do you want to change?"

She looks down at herself, dismissive. "Not particularly. Why, do you want me to?"

"We're taking human transport."

For the first time, Isa looks dumbfounded. "Human transport? Why not run?"

"You look like you could use some sleep. And I want the time to think."

"What about money?"

"I have some."

"Fine." She ascends the stairs, pausing when she sees the blood drawing outside the dressing room.

Edward leans against the banister. "Do you know what that is?"

"Yes." She doesn't elaborate and he's too weary to ask.

"Just hurry."

"Of course," she answers. Without a shred of care for her modesty, she rips through the bloodied dress, tearing it off her shoulders and flinging it carelessly to the side. "What do you want me to wear?"

Edward is unimpressed by her antics. "I'm not interested in your wardrobe."

She shrugs, unbothered. "Just checking. I can't read your mind, can I?"

What an odd thing to say.

She returns clad in a drab grey dress—a boring, forgettable colour. A wise choice for their circumstance but will it fit?

"I don't know how much the times have changed," he confesses.

"Not much," she replies. "Lilith's reign of terror continues, the humans are edgier than ever... trying to exterminate your kind —without much success, I must add—and oh, Acolytes are a secret. Breathe a word of it to a human and I'll have to kill the poor soul."

" _Have to_?"

She smiles. "You know how it is. Lilith's words. Your words. I have no choice in the matter."

She's not asking for consolation and he doesn't try.

"Shall we?" Out of sheer habit, he offers her an arm to guide her out the door but she doesn't move.

"You forget, Edward," she says silkily.

"What?"

" _Make no attempt to leave the house until I tell you to,_ " she repeats his words.

Edward feels clumsy. "Come on out."

Her smile widens as she loops her arm gracefully through his. "Why, thank you."


	12. Reign of Terror, II

The silence drags between them as they sprint across the plains, towards the eastern borders. In his original condition, he would've managed in an hour. Now, it takes almost half a day.

He doesn't need rest but he can hear her heartbeat straining—she's fighting to keep up as the sun rises.

"Are you still susceptible to sunlight?"

"No." Her answer is curt and she's clearly trying to save her breath.

"Let's stop for a while."

She halts the same instant he does, vigilant. "What? Did you hear something?"

Her hands reach into the sash, already pulling out several hidden knives.

"You seem tired."

Her eyes flicker to him and then away before she tucks the blades back into the fabric, saying nothing, doing nothing. She just stands there, as though she's waiting for him to instruct her.

It makes him uncomfortable. "What were your other Guides like?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I don't know how to be one," he says bluntly.

Her scorn fades. "It's nothing complicated. You do what you must as one of the Sworn and I make sure you stay alive. You follow Lilith's orders and I follow yours. In the end, we're nothing but pawns."

"Pawns," Edward repeats softly. "I disagree. Unlike you, I'm not bound to Lilith's words. I still have free will."

"Not really. She'll kill you if you don't obey—if you're lucky."

"But I still have the choice," Edward argues. "There is no unnatural force making me obey. If I choose to die than to obey, I could. There's a difference."

She has caught her breath so he starts to run again. She follows, her expression contemplative.

"You believe—or at least, you seem to believe—that most people value their principles over their lives. You're wrong." She moves faster, until she's sprinting beside him. "At least I'm blameless for any crime I commit."

Her words sound blasé but his intuition flashes again.

"You are," he agrees. "You never had the choice."

Unexpectedly, she smirks. "Don't misunderstand me. Even if I could choose, I doubt I'd make the honourable choice. I'd save my own skin every time. It's the only good out of this curse—it frees me of the blame. Then again, I'd choose blame over obedience any day." She laughs merrily. "That _does_ make me guilty, doesn't it? I don't care."

"Don't you?" He challenges her but her smile doesn't falter. "You never did answer my question about your Guides."

"If you want to know so badly, why don't you _order_ me to answer you?" she mocks.

"I don't like this any more than you do," he says, "So I'll try to refrain from giving you orders. But—"

"But?" Her eyes flash. " _But?_ You think I haven't heard this before? You think you're better than the rest of them? I don't want your pity. I don't need it. Do what you want to do. Make me tell you. Use me as you will. But don't you try and pretend to be good. None of you bloodsuckers are."

Their argument is cut short when a whistle cuts through the air. He moves to evade the object but Isa throws herself in its path. It pierces her abdomen and he sees blood blooming through her grey dress—too much for a simple dart.

Before he can speak, she seizes his arm, pulling him behind one of the few trees on the barren plain.

"Fucking humans," she snarls, clutching her side. Blood trickles down the corners of her mouth.

He turns to her, angry. "Why did you do that? It wouldn't have harmed me."

She spits out a mouthful of blood. "You must have been cooped up in Lilith's time void for a long time if you think so. These needles have been specially developed to incapacitate your kind. And don't even think of trying anything funny. These humans aren't planning to kill you. They're planning to experiment on you. Stay behind me. I can't die as long as you're alive."

Another whistle echoes in the silence and Isa throws a knife, stopping the dart before it reaches their tree and suddenly he understands why she let it hit her. The dart blooms as it hits the knife, separating into thousands of needles that splinter in all directions.

It's only by virtue of their shelter that they're protected from the rain of hypodermic needles.

"Isa," he says, his insides turning to ice. "How's your wound?"

She pays no attention to him, inching towards the edges of the tree, two of the knives held tightly in one hand. He hears it too. Two heartbeats.

"They're loading the weapons," Edward tells her, listening to their minds. "It's safe to strike. Left."

She doesn't even ask how he knows—she just reaches out and throws.

Two cries echo in the air simultaneously and he sees a flash of their last moments—frantic, futile attempts to remove the blades from their hearts—before they both succumb to death.

"Fucking humans," Isa curses again. "How the hell did they get through Lilith's border?"

"How do _you_ plan to get out?"

"Acolytes can move through her borders freely. We're incapable of rebelling, after all." She smiles wryly, but more blood is dribbling down, flowing from her chin to her neck.

"You're bleeding."

"Really? I didn't know," she says sarcastically. "Why don't you drink up? It's a waste. Here." Grotesquely, she scoops it up into her palm and holds it out to him.

Edward doesn't know which is worse—that she's serious or that she's right.


	13. Reign of Terror, III

"I don't want it."

"What's the point in pretending?" she scoffs. "You're going to have to feed sooner or later. Take it."

"No."

"What's the matter? Not warm enough for you? Not fresh enough?" She staggers closer, waving her hand and dripping the liquid everywhere.

It's funny how her blood no longer seem to affect him. Now that he'd failed to resist, now that there's no more point in resisting, the smell that would've driven him mad before no longer holds any weight.

"...some practicality. Do I have to tear out a vein to get you to drink?" She's so close that some of the falling blood is splashing onto his clothes. He meets her disdainful gaze.

In the past, he would've found the derision an affront. But pride is something he no longer has. Not when he'd failed to save his family, not when he'd failed to honour their memory.

And so he feels only utter apathy. "Not now."

Whatever she sees in his eyes makes her stop her goading. She steps away from him, letting the redness splatter to the ground. Her hand moves to the bulk of the needles stuck in her side, as though to pull them out.

"Stop." He's there in a second, catching her hand and she becomes rigid.

There's a defiant gleam in her eyes and she's holding her breath. She's waiting, he realises. She's expecting something, but what?

"I know you heal fast but you don't want to pull all of that out at the same time," he says.

The insolence in her eyes is replaced by surprise, the tension fading away from her shoulders—and he suddenly understands. She thought he'd attack her. She'd been deliberately provoking him.

"Why would you do that?"

Irritation hits her expression. "Because it's faster."

It takes him a second to realise that she's talking about the needles.

"Faster isn't always better."

"So what, you want to sit here for another hour pulling it out one by one?" she snaps. "And wait for more hunters to show up?"

"Would you prefer to pull out some organs together with all those needles?" he shoots back. "Or run while you bleed to death?"

"I told you, I can't die as long as you're alive."

"I don't believe a thing you say."

To his surprise, she grins. "Aren't you smartening up?"

It's hard not to like her. It's hard not to hate her.

She removes the torn sash, tying the broken ends together before wrapping it around her waist, covering the entry wound. "Let's do it in the train. I can still run."

He opens his mouth to offer to carry her but then closes it again. It would only earn him another snide remark.

"You'd better be sure. I don't have any use for a dead Acolyte." He marvels at the words coming out of his mouth—her nastiness is catching.

"For fuck's sake, I really can't die as long as you're alive."

"Then keep up," he calls, already running. The patters of her footfalls echo as she follows.

No one blinks when they arrive at the rundown train station covered in blood.

Several people are in a similar condition, coughing or limping. Isa steps over a half-dead man and presses some coins to the train master's hand. His eyes slide lewdly down her body and she smiles saccharinely, leaning towards him so that her cleavage is visible.

"Two tickets, please."

It works. He spares the vampire behind her no more than a passing glance before waving them through a couple of odd devices that look too complex to be metal detectors.

"Vampire detectors, my ass," she mutters, once they are out of earshot. "That cheap thing doesn't work."

"Vampire detectors?" he murmurs. "I thought you said the extermination was unsuccessful. They must've caught some vampires for them to develop weapons and detectors."

She kicks open a stiff, rusty carriage door. "I said it was _mostly_ unsuccessful. There are idiots among vampires just as there are idiots in every species. It's not hard to work around the detectors or the hunters, but it is a hassle. Damn humans making everything more difficult."

Edward straightens. "You don't like humans. You don't like vampires. Whose side are you on?"

"No one's. I hate all of you."

She plonks herself down into an empty compartment and begins to pluck out the needles. He shuts the door, pulling the curtains close and watches as she drops one needle and then another and then another onto the adjacent seat. He's amazed that she managed to walk this far without flinching.

"Do you need any help?"

"No," she says, yanking out another needle with unnecessary force. She wrinkles her nose at the stink of urine in their compartment. "If I were human, I'd be dead from the infection floating around this disgusting train."

Edward glances at her. "If you were human, you wouldn't have had time to throw yourself in front of that dart."

She exhales noisily. "And you would've been rotting in some lab and I would've been zombie girl."

"That doesn't make any sense," he points out. "If you were human, you wouldn't become one of the Undesirables."

She snorts. "You've got to be kidding me. Where do you think they came from? Lilith destroyed entire towns searching for Acolytes."

"I thought Acolytes were made not born."

"Of course we are! But do you think that snobby bitch would pick any random stranger? No. She chooses us using whatever messed up criteria she has."

The train begins to move and she pulls out the last of the needles. "It's a good thing you didn't drink from me," she says suddenly. "My blood must've been full of toxin."

"You would've liked that, wouldn't you?" he mutters. "Dragging my frozen body along, _accidentally_ bumping it everywhere?"

She looks unexpectedly irked. "Have you listened to anything I said? I'm your Acolyte. I'm incapable of intentionally causing you any physical harm, no matter how small."

He looks at her knowingly. "But mentally is a different issue. Mentally, you're doing everything in your power to drive me up the wall."

That shut her up.


	14. Untold Horrors, I

The circles under her eyes are so dark now that they look like bruises under the flickering light.

She sits with her arms folded, sagging against the partition. The exhaustion is chipping away her bravado and she hasn't spoken for the last two hours, although he has caught her staring at him more than once.

He doesn't know why she's fighting to stay awake and he doesn't pry. After another hour, she finally loses the battle against sleep. Her eyelids flutter shut and her breathing slows.

Edward gazes out of the crusty window at the occasional, bare tree stumps that flit past amidst the trash, rubble and sand. The engine hums noisily and their carriage clanks and creaks. Still, the girl opposite him is fast asleep, her head lolling to the side and her lips slightly parted. When she's silent like this, she looks vulnerable and young. Perhaps she was a college student when Lilith destroyed her town and turned her into one of the Volturi's Acolytes.

Edward isn't a fool.

Before his isolation at the hands of the Volturi, he'd been privy to thousands of thoughts. He'd seen hidden sides and how thoughts sway behaviour. So even though he's unable to access her mind, he sees her bluster for what it is—a shield.

It's not hard for him to put two and two together. The Sworn are known for their viciousness. Among the Volturi's circle of gifted vampires, it is expected and even necessary to display and maintain dominance. And if their Acolytes are unable to defy them...

His eyes flicker back to her. Four Guides. She's either very, very good at surviving or she's as callous as the rest of them. Maybe both.

The train jolts violently as it hits a broken rail and she jerks awake.

In those brief seconds of confusion, her eyes are utterly unrecognisable—bottomless pools of defeat and misery. When she catches him looking at her, the expression vanishes and she turns towards the window, ebony hair curtaining her face from him.

Edward has been wary from the first moment, but the glimpse of utter hopelessness—perhaps the only genuine emotion he'd seen her display—cause alarm bells to ring.

"Isa."

Her eyes snap to him, instantly alert.

"How do you plan to get Lilith's venom?"

Her lips twist and he recognises that look. It's the same reluctant countenance she'd worn when he'd unwittingly given her an order she didn't wish to comply with. The memory echoes in his mind, clear as day. _Tell me honestly. Do you want to do this? Do you want to be my Acolyte?_

She'd had this exact expression before she'd given him a negative.

Right now, her eyes are straining to tell him something. And then in a flash, it vanishes, replaced by a smirk. "It's simple, all we have to do is to wait for her to go into her long sleep."

He'd never heard of such a thing.

He stares at her and she holds his gaze, the smile plastered artificially, contradicting her eyes. He'd never truly looked into her eyes before this moment and it's a mistake. The light in them is dimmed, almost deadened.

"Tell me the truth," he gives the order slowly. "Have you always told me the truth... to the best of your ability?"

There is no hesitation. "Yes."

It's an uncharacteristic reply—no mocking, no contempt.

He leans forward and tries something else. "Be honest. Have you been instructed to conceal something from me?"

She's fighting it again and this time she's trembling. Her lips part and then it's as though something snaps within her. Her hands fly to her face.

"No, of course not." Her answer is rapid, toneless and the moment she says it, the tension leaves her body and she slumps against the compartment, her breathing heavy.

The smell of blood fills their compartment and for a long, long moment she doesn't lower her hands. When she does, her eyes are bloodshot.

Her efforts haven't been wasted. He's now absolutely positive of three things.

First, she's trying to help him.

Second, there is a part of her—and he doesn't know how dominant that part might be—that's following Lilith's orders.

And third, he's unconditionally and irrevocably going to help her.


	15. Untold Horrors, II

She turns away from him, her hair a shield once more.

"Don't look at me."

"Isa—..."

"I said _don't look at me_!"

He can't help it. There's a patch of angry red forming across her left eye, stretching from her ear to the tip of the opposite brow and the longer he looks, the more it spreads and discolours.

It starts to rain as it always does nowadays, the sky weeping at the destruction and the cruelty it sees below.

"I hate people like you the most."

Her words are limp.

Edward wants to ask her about the curse on her face but the way she's sitting, angled away from him, her arms bolted like locks across her chest, tells him that his question will be futile. He sighs.

"Why won't you let me help you?"

" _Help_ me?" she hisses, suddenly furious again. "Help _me_? You can't even help yourself."

He thinks she will leave but she stays where she is, her anger poisoning more of the air around them. Her constant temper scratches away at his numbness little by little. It's less the injustice than his inability to do anything about it.

He has tried courtesy, banter, silence... and still _this._ It's the helplessness all over again—in protecting his family, in treasuring their legacy and now with her. He's tried his damnedest not to be a monster but at every turn, he's so close to snapping it frightens him.

"Why do you keep baiting me?" he demands. "I've agreed to your terms. We're going to Volterra. What more do you want?"

She's fighting it again.

This time he's sure that it's not his order she's fighting—he has given her none. This one is Lilith's, and without a conflicting order, she fails faster than before.

Her will fades, overpowered by the curse.

The anger is dimmed, the tension reigned in and she quietens, her voice unnaturally smooth once more. "I know. I'm sorry for being so unreasonable."

_No, you're not._

She's raging and he knows it.

"We're almost here," she says. The angry welt on her left cheek extends towards the other side, uncoiling like a snake, and he presses his lips together. She hasn't asked him about his old curse, he won't pry into hers.

So they sit in the train in uncomfortable silence. She has a hand on her forehead as though she's nursing a terrible headache and he closes his eyes, contemplating the trap he's decided to walk into.

"Edward."

He opens his eyes.

She reaches into the bust of her dress and pulls out a familiar sheet. Edward feels his chest tighten. "Before I regained my memories, I found this." She doesn't turn the photograph towards him and he's grateful. "Two of them are alive, Edward. They're waiting for you." Her hands tremble.

"Alice and Jasper? They're alive?" Edward sits up, shocked.

"I don't know their names. They've never spoken to me."

"But you've seen them?"

"Yes."

The red stains on her face are darkening to the bluish black of bruises.

"Your face..." he murmurs, unable to help himself this time.

She runs a fingertip across the ruined skin, looking at him with tired eyes. "If you ask me one more question I cannot answer, I will die." The words are said with little emotion. "So be very sure it's what you want before you ask again."

-xx-x-xx-

The Volturi living quarters are sprawling, imposing, countless towers reaching high into the stormy sky as though wishing to claw down the very sunlight.

The gates swing open before they announce their presence and Edward tenses when he sees the Original. But Marcus has eyes only for Isa.

"Oh Isa..." he murmurs, tracing her cheek. "Lilith will be upset."

Bizarrely, he spends a few minutes fussing over her, straightening her gown and brushing the dust and dirt off her skin as though she's a child. Edward says nothing until Marcus leans in and presses a chaste kiss on her unresponsive lips.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Marcus smiles at Isa. "I'm greeting someone for whom I have great affection. I was not sure she would return."

Edward has a thousand things to say but he bites them back. Marcus's fondness for his Acolyte might have been the reason for her survival.

"That is not to say you are not welcome, Edward. But, unlike Isa, we have been expecting you."

_Of course they do, the bastards._

The throne—if one could call it that is a slab of shapeless stone and Lilith is coiled on it like a serpent waiting to strike. Unlike Marcus, her eyes move to take to take in Edward first.

Lilith's mind is silent to him—the first time she has taken any pains to conceal it from him. Customarily, her disregard for his ability to listen is a display of her dominance—to show him how absolutely trivial he is to her.

"Come here, my child."

He pauses and it's a mistake. She tilts her head and smiles. He feels himself being yanked forward by an invisible force, held immobile by it as she turns him and contemplates him like an exotic creature.

"I did not think I could break you," she muses. "And I was not wrong. I have something you desire."

She inclines her head and the vampire was brought forth.

If Edward hasn't spent a hundred years hating him, he wouldn't recognise the man—he is so broken.

"I've been punishing him." Lilith's tone was casual.

Caius is limp, his eyes wide and staring in an expression of perpetual shock.

"He has ceased responding two decades ago but I've kept him alive. I wanted to let you choose his fate."

Seeing him ruined beyond repair is a sight Edward has fantasised about. He's wanted to commit the atrocities himself. But seeing the act already achieved... Edward doesn't expect the emptiness he suddenly feels. All of his rage—everything he'd wanted to do, it has already been done. And just like that, Lilith has removed his old purpose.

Edward stares at the man one last time. "I would kill him."

Lilith doesn't blink, and in a heartbeat, Caius is dead.

"You are one of the Sworn now, my child," she says, resting a hand on his arm tenderly. "Serve us well." Her attention shifts to Isa and her telekinesis changes direction abruptly, nudging him out of the circle.

"Come here, darling."

Isa's steps are steady, defiant even.

Lilith moves so fast Edward doesn't see it happen. A crack echoes around the chamber a second later and Isa is clutching her face.

"You're welcome, Lilith," she says sweetly, blood running down her jaw. "It was my pleasure to bring him here."

Lilith smiles and then slaps her again. "You impertinent child, always plotting. Always failing. But it amuses me."

"I'm glad it amuses you." Edward recognises Isa's silent seething. So does Lilith.

"You never learn, my dear Isa," she says, her voice dangerously gentle, "Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

Isa falls silent but her eyes are burning.

"And don't look at me like that," Lilith says. "I might just gouge those pretty eyes out again." She uncoils herself, soft skirts slipping off the throne to reveal its diamond encrust. "Your position displeases me. Kneel."

Stiffly, Isa obeys and Lilith puts a hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face Edward. "Now, look him in the eye and tell him what you did."

"I tricked you." Her voice is flat, her gaze lifeless and Lilith yanks back her hair.

"Tell him everything you did."

"I did _everything in my power to bring you here_." The words are sharply chosen and Edward realises it's the order she's been given, rephrased.

Lilith knows it as well and she laughs again. "You are incorrigible, aren't you?" She kicks the girl in her ribs and she doubles over, her expression pained. "Stay where you are." She steps on Isa's face, grinding her foot against her bruised cheek and Edward can no longer contain himself.

"Stop. Please," he says, hating his helplessness once again.

"I see that you're very taken with your new toy, sweet child."

Isa spits and Edward grinds his teeth together as she renders his efforts useless. Lilith yanks the girl up by the back of her collar, strangulating her with it. "Darling Isa. So good at finding loopholes. So bright, so insufferable." She jerks the collar backwards. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

" _Fuck you_ ," Isa manages finally and Lilith laughs, loosening her hold.

"I usually rip out her tongue for that but I won't damage your new toy." She shoves Isa backwards towards him and reflexively, he catches her.

"This one is very cunning," Lilith says. "Trust her too much and she'll destroy you. Make no bargains with her. If you use her well, her intelligence will be your greatest asset. And I will reward you richly, my child."

Edward adjusts his hold on Isa, lifting her into his arms. "There's nothing I want from you."

Lilith gives him a motherly smile, taking in his posture with uncanny shrewdness. "Very well. Allow me to correct myself. Serve me well, Edward, and I might set your Acolyte free."


	16. Untold Horrors, III

"I can walk." She tries to twist out of his hold but he rests a hand on her upper arm, willing her to look at him.

"I don't doubt it," he says patiently. "But I'd prefer if you don't."

She falls silent, her hand cupping her still-bleeding side, looking as though she's working up the nerve to say something. Edward strides through the gleaming white archway, waiting.

"Your siblings aren't really here."

"I know." Alice and Jasper would never join something so vile.

"I tried to tell you—"

"I know." He glances at her. "I've always suspected. I became sure when we were on the train."

She looks unexpectedly distressed. "But I swear, I tried to tell you. It wasn't completely my fault—I literally _can't_ resist an order, especially not one so absolute. I knew they were alive and so I had to—"

"It wasn't your fault at all."

He doesn't understand her reaction and she doesn't seem to understand his because she looks confused.

"So you're letting me off scot-free?"

Her left eye is swollen shut but she seems hardly shaken.

Edward doesn't know what's sadder—that she's taking this as though it were normal or that she's expecting him to hurt her.

He's forgotten so much. He's forgotten the inhumanity of the vampire world. Carlisle had been a beacon in the darkness and now he's dead. Edward feels himself grieving again for the father he's lost, for the goodness the world has lost.

He wants to tell Isa not to be ridiculous, but when violence is all she's been shown, how can she know better?

"You did nothing wrong," he only says. He reaches out, gently brushing a sticky strand away from her face and frowns at the gash. "Why aren't you healing?"

"Because resisting an order kills me little by little." She licks her split lip and glances around anxiously. "You really should put me down. It's—"

Without warning, a heavy shower of lethargy washes over him. Edward feels the energy drain from his body, his muscles becoming so slack that it's all he can do not to drop her. The moment he tries to think, the moment he tries to struggle, he feels himself being pulled by an invisible force backwards through a revolving wall.

"You mustn't be seen carrying an Acolyte."

Edward freezes, momentarily disoriented, but the force hits Isa harder. She's limp in his arms, her head lolling against his chest. For one devastating moment, he thinks the violence has killed her, but her heart thrums strongly, steadily, and she's breathing. The culprit steps into view.

Marcus observes the sleeping girl and puts a hand over the splintered rib jutting out gruesomely from her side.

As the bone sinks and takes its proper form, the skin knitting together, the Original speaks. "You would do well to take my advice. Isa's wellbeing is dependent on your standing."

His milky eyes shift to something behind Edward and something tinkles. A clear vial drifts through the air, into Marcus's hand. He presses it into Edward's palm. "Ask her to drink this when she wakes."

Edward stares at the faintly glowing liquid within, knowing but not believing. "What is this?"

"My venom. It will help her heal." He traces the discolouration on Isa's cheek. "The stains will take too long to heal on their own. She must survive."

His tender expression puts Edward on-edge. For an Original to bestow venom to another... _what is his purpose?_

"Does Lilith know what you're doing?" he asks tensely.

"There are no secrets between Originals." Aro's voice emerges unbidden from the shadows, his smile feral and Edward takes a step back, his hold tightening protectively around the sleeping girl. "We are one."

Edward distrusts Aro. He's the most obsequious of the lovers. But there must be something they want that Lilith has taken such pains to acquire him. They wouldn't dispose of him that easily.

The knowledge makes him bolder. "If you're truly one, why did she kill Caius?" he dares to ask.

"Caius..." Aro sighs. "He's difficult."

"Jealous," Marcus adds. "Your family was not the first..."

"...nor the last to have borne the brunt of his temper." Aro's lips aren't moving but Edward hears him as clear as day. "With each child of the night he kills, our strength dies a little more."

"And these are troubled times," Marcus says.

"Troubled times in which we cannot afford to slip," Aro agrees.

"We agreed disposing of him would be best."

"We agreed, the three of us together."

"A burden."

"Problematic."

"Unnecessary."

Their voices blend and echo, and Edward isn't sure who's speaking. The ancient energy vibrates, humming higher and higher and something cold trickles down his back. He feels Lilith's presence, even though he doesn't know where she is.

When his unease grows unbearable, Marcus draws the archway open. "To the left."

Edward leaves without looking back.


	17. Isa, I

Consciousness snaps back to her like a rubber band, the way it always does. She has no memory of falling asleep or passing out—and that's always a bad thing. Where is she? What has happened this time?

She doesn't move, doesn't open her eyes, feigning sleep as she strains to sense her surroundings. The bedding is soft and she's not restrained. Her instinct jolts, feeling the hum of ancients the way only Acolytes can. They're so close that it can only be Volterra. There's someone else... the familiar scent of honey and lilac.

Now she remembers.

She opens her eyes and immediately regrets it when she's assaulted by the pain.

He's there—the new Guide.

They're usually nervous in the beginning. Showier, louder, nastier. Some get better with time, most get worse. But he's different. He's not nervous at all. She instinctively picks up his emotions, attuned to him the way an Acolyte is to a Guide: relief, concern, curiosity.

She tries to sit up, not wanting to seem lazy, but he rests a hand on her shoulder, indicating that she should stay.

"Marcus gave this to you." He holds our a clear vial of venom.

Marcus. He has always been suspiciously kind but recently, it feels almost like he's courting her. She recognises the signs. The kiss, the initial grooming and now even venom. She should be flattered. But what she thinks, feels or wants doesn't matter. She's learned that the hard way.

Maybe it isn't Marcus's venom. Maybe her Guide is testing her.

"What do you want me to do with that?" she asks carefully, her voice hoarse.

"He says you're to drink it."

She pauses, dissecting his sentence, trying to find the trick in it. Most Guides are dull and bloodthirsty—she finds those the easiest to cope with—but some, like her first, James; they liked their games. So far this one has been feigning kindness, but one never knows when another will snap. It's hard to think over the constant ache. Each breath feels like knives against the bruises spreading over her skin.

He moves closer and she tenses under the blankets.

His hand curls under her neck, his touch gentle, but all she can think is how easily he can snap her neck and cripple her for weeks. She's so distracted by the thought that she jerks, surprised, when he brings the vial to her lips.

"You should drink. It'll help you heal."

He tips the liquid to her lips and, reflexively, she swallows. Immediately, warmth spreads through her body. The marks fade from her skin, as did the weakness. She feels rejuvenated and she sits up, looking at him.

He's too good to be true.

"You said you knew," she says quietly. "Why did you come?"

He changes the subject. "Are Alice and Jasper really alive?"

"Yes, but they're not _here_." There's a desperate, angry edge to her voice. "Why did you come? You should've killed me and stayed where you were. That was the logical choice—the sensible choice!"

If he's good, she's doomed him. If he's bad, she wants to break his mask now. She doesn't want to play the game the way James had played it.

"Where did you see them?" he asks, his eyes blazing.

He's avoiding the topic and she yields. He can't avoid it forever and she can't afford to antagonise him too much—not now that he'll be her Guide until one of them dies.

"We were ordered to raid a city," she tells him. "They searched for you but you know how it is with Lilith's time voids. They're undetectable from the outside, other than by Acolytes or Originals. My first Guide—James—he told them you were dead."

"Your first Guide," he murmurs. "When was that?"

"A hundred years ago." She pushes the unkempt hair out of her face. "The male... _Jasper_ ," she tries his name. "He nearly killed me. He killed my Guide. He's the most ferocious fighter I've faced. But his mate stopped him. It was quite... amazing," she admits, remembering the horrors of that night. "I've never seen mated couples outside of the Originals and they were very different. There was love. And they had golden eyes. It was a pretty colour."

She tries to remember some more. The memories are always fuzzy after her Guide dies.

"The female tried to speak to me after James died," she says. "But I'm not... _me_ after my Guide dies. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad they killed him. But I don't know why they spared me. And I don't remember much of that night."

He gives her an odd look but says nothing. She can't quite decipher the emotion this time. But she does sense hunger.

"I don't understand you," she says. If he wants to, he can take her blood. He can do whatever he wants to her. But he doesn't.

And so she does what is second nature to her. She pushes.

"You know as well as I do that Lilith won't do it," she says bluntly. "She'll never set an Acolyte free and she'll never set you free. It's too risky."

She pushes and she provokes because she can't feel his character. His apparent goodness is implausible. It's a ruse. It's a trap for something else. It always has been.

"I know," he only says.

"Then _why_?"

He turns to her now. "Why did you try and help me? Why did you push me away? You could've just obeyed Lilith and saved yourself some pain."

She freezes but he doesn't stop.

"You asked me why I didn't just kill you. Yet you said you couldn't die as long as I'm alive. Which is the truth?" His eyes narrow. "You and I, for whatever reason, we're going to be together for some time. Let's not make this more difficult than it already is."

Everything clicks in her mind.

He's not playing games. He's not pretending. And she hates that even more.

"You..." She can barely find her tongue. "You really traded your freedom for a stranger. You're naïve. No... you're stupid. No, not even that. You're worse. You're idealistic. Do you know how fast people like you die?"

"I'm alive," he says. "And so are you. Goodness is not dead." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself and doesn't she want to believe it too? But she's seen far too much.

"You asked me why I helped you," she whispers. "Because if I succeeded in bringing you back, your wrath would've hurt me far more than Lilith's would. How much damage can she inflict in an hour? How much can _you_ , in years? Everything I do, it's for myself."

"And you're telling me this because?"

Her lips twist. "Because it's time you take care of yourself. Because if you die, only the gods know what kind of Guide I'll have next."


	18. Isa, II

He pauses, his irises dark and unfathomable, and then to her shock, he smiles for the first time. It's a defeated smile, but she sees a shadow of the happy, golden-eyed boy from the photograph.

"You don't have to worry. Dying is something I can't seem to do."

Something aches in the centre of her chest, and she isn't sure if it's her pain or an echo of his. He reminds her so much of everything she'd believed to have been purged from this ruined world.

She has buried her own humanity long ago. She's made peace with the knowledge that she is as vile as the rest of Volterra. But he's different. He's not broken—not completely.

And something in her wants to keep it alive. Keep _him_ alive.

The desire merges with the overpowering protective instinct of an Acolyte and takes root, altering and strengthening the worming, alien connections she has always despised.

She can't stand the intensity—as though her programmed devotion isn't enough—but the distance hurts more. Isa leans towards him, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, hating the thrill that runs through her at the feel of his bare skin when the cloth tears.

"It's people like you who're the most dangerous to me," she says, swinging her legs so that she's on his lap, her bare thighs on either side of his waist. "You slither in here and destroy me from the inside. Slowly." She runs a fingernail over one of his ribs, over where she knows the tip of his unbeating heart rests.

She begins to rip the already-torn dress off her body and he catches her wrist, his gaze hard.

"What are you doing?"

"Please," she says breathlessly, tearing more of his shirt with her free hand. "I need this."

Her half-lie has its intended effect. His grip loosens and he yields—as selfless as she expects. It's a flaw in the Originals' design that she understands him so intimately. _The better to serve with._ The knowledge can be used in other ways. Her hatred can override the innate devotion. She'd found their deficiencies and destroyed them, one by one.

This is the first time she is knowingly, willingly putting a Guide's needs over her own.

Because this one won't feed.

She slants her head and kisses him. At this proximity, with her breasts pressed against his chest, his emotions vibrate and hum higher, stronger, overpowering her own. Hungrily, she absorbs them one by one, relishing the destruction of her own emptiness, filling it with his desire, his indecision, his warmth.

There's more but that part of him is filled with pain, and she doesn't delve deeper.

The indecision and the desire balance at a knife-point.

Fast as lightning, she nicks her tongue and her lips, giving him a taste of what he will have if he does what is in his nature to do. An Acolyte's blood is infinitely sweeter, especially hers; it's made for him, it responds to him, even more now that she's offering it.

But astoundingly, he leans back. "No," he murmurs against her lips. The craving burns wild in his eyes but his determination is iron. Skillfully, she moves her lips, slicing the flesh open with his teeth, filling his mouth with more blood that he isn't swallowing.

"Please, Edward," she implores, caressing his back. "Drink."

He's torn.

She doesn't understand the cause of his self-imposed starvation but it can't go on if he is to live. She moves against him, heightening his arousal, willing him to let go, to slip into instinct as he should.

"This isn't right," he says, his breathing uneven.

He's incredible. Incredibly stubborn, idiosyncratic and good, so much so that he's making it difficult for her to help him.

She halts her manipulations and finds his eyes. "I'm bound to you," she says quietly. "Your weakness is mine. It has never been more right."

Arms find her waist, long fingers trailing up her back until it reaches her scalp, a thumb rubbing circles against her nape. She stiffens, unused to someone touching such a vulnerable area outside of feeding. He's still looking into her eyes and his intensity is unnerving. She holds herself perfectly still, fighting the urge to speak, fighting the urge to look away.

"Is this what you want?" he asks unexpectedly. "Or is this something that Lilith—"

"No! I mean yes! Yes, you have to drink. I...I want you to drink." The last sentence feels foreign on her tongue. After a century of yearning for choice, being given one is unexpectedly daunting. Ironically, the control he's given her makes her feel less in control than if he'd simply ordered her to let him feed.

She swallows, feeling oddly off balance.

He pushes her down onto the cushions, brushing his lips against her forehead. "I'll do as you say."

His fingers trail down her body, caressing gently, and she looks up at him, feeling more frightened than if he'd just fucked her.

"What are you doing?" Their positions are now reversed. He's in control and she hasn't felt so powerless since her first time in Volterra. And this he achieved without a single order.

"You want me to drink," he murmurs, "It'll be more pleasant if you're aroused."

"You've done this before." The knowledge burns her—it reminds her of her time with James. He'd led her to believe that he was different from the others, made her love him and then he'd shattered her in the worst way possible.

Edward's voice pulls her out from the horrid memories. "It's common knowledge."

He's right.

But it's been a long time since anyone has cared for her comfort. She's searching for an ulterior motive until she realises that she initiated this. She wanted him to drink and now she doesn't. Scattered, she remains silent, avoiding his gaze.

He begins to pull away.

" _No!_ " She catches his arm. "Just... just drink. I don't need the foreplay."

When he does take her into his arms, biting, she resists her Guide's aphrodisiacal venom, digging her fingernails deep into her palms, using the pain as an anchor to cleanse her mind.


	19. Isa, III

She's digging her fingernails so deep now that they draw blood. She knows what will happen. She expects it. From the commencement of her offer, she knows it will culminate in her being at his mercy—she's taken the plunge to peel the last of his pretenses.

Still, she can't help but fight it with every fibre of her being. Like one who regrets the jump as he falls, she's grasping her last threads of sanity—too little, too late.

His venom, like every Guide before him, overwhelms her with chemicals so potent that her body cannot help but respond.

It starts as a subtle tremble at the base of her stomach. And then it spreads lower, blood rushing to the surface of her skin, ripe for the taking. One pulse, another, and then her folds are slippery with slick. She can't help it. She squirms needily against him, a soft whine in her throat. He's already hard against her and she feels his cock twitch at the visceral noises she's making.

Most Guides, they would be fucking her by now, using her body for their pleasure the way the Originals intend. And in this mindless state, it has always killed her how eagerly her body laps up whatever is inflicted upon it—pleasure, pain, both.

Perhaps the design is intended as mercy. It's a reprieve from the violence... until she regains her mind. James enjoyed tormenting her with it, he enjoyed showing her how he could turn her body traitor with meagre drops of venom. He'd explicitly forbidden release to watch her fervour grow. The others after him had simply given no thought to her pleasure—and for that she'd been thankful.

Her current Guide does neither. He's frozen still as a statue. The absence of friction drives her body into a frenzy. Her fingernails dig into his back, slippery with blood and in this moment, she doesn't know if she hates him or trusts him.

His arms tighten around her, locking her in place, bringing her movements to an end. Fluid continues to leak onto his thighs and she's shivering with need.

Slowly, so slowly, he presses her into the cushions, pinning her body under his, his eyes like black fire as they meet her wild ones. Her heart pounds. Her body wants him to take her but her mind will hate him either way.

It doesn't matter because he's already moving, spreading her thighs wide. More slick trickles forth as she anticipates the smooth glide of his cock. Only, he doesn't fuck her. Fingers delve deep between weeping flesh, touching her where she aches. She cries out and he continues, pressing the maddeningly sensitive spot until she's reduced to a creature of pure feeling, writhing to the rhythm of his fingers.

Each time her hips demand, desperate, he gives willingly, guiding her to the brink of something so intense, her inner muscles begin to quake. Without warning, he bites, sinking sharp teeth into her carotid and injecting his venom. A shock of intoxication floods her system and she climaxes so hard her vision goes white.

She thrashes, screaming, any remnant of control shattered. Still, his fingers continue their masterful manipulation, stimulating sensitive nerves until she's begging him to stop.

As she recovers her mind, gasping, gleaming with sweat, his tongue sweeps over her wound, his arm drawing her close to him so that they're skin to skin. His touch is soothing, gentle, and she sags, too winded to fight him.

When his lips brush against her forehead, a different tremble begins at the base of her stomach. It's a fierce rewiring, undoing everything she's tried to be, connections spreading from the centre of her heart to the tips of her fingers and toes. They sear and glow, everything she's managed to deny hardening.

He's destroyed her.

Everything she'd tried not to become, everything she'd managed not to become for one century, undone, and he hadn't even been trying.

Something this little shouldn't have unravelled her.

But her heart sings, the instinct praising her for submitting after a century, and she weeps as she bids goodbye to the last sliver of self she'd managed to preserve. His arm moves up her spine, a thumb wiping away her tears, and now she understands the blood sketch completely.

This Guide will be her last. Her time will end with him.

Even in her bitterness, she recognises that he's worthy.

As though to attest to it, she hears the quiet tear of skin and his wrist is at her lips, offering venom in exchange for the blood he has taken, an act that seals her decision. She presses her lips to his vein and softens, surrendering to the instinct.


	20. Choice

**Chapter 20: Choice**

He holds her for what feels like hours, until she's cried herself dry, until her body ceases to tremble. The last thing she remembers is the exhaustion, the draining away of her energy, and she falls into a slumber deeper than any she's had since her inauguration into this bleak life.

When she opens her eyes, sunlight is streaming through the gaps in the curtains and she's alone on the divan, swaddled in blankets. Suffocation descends with wakefulness and she peels them away in panic.

Her heart is pounding.

It's been a long time since she's slept through anything—let alone someone touching her. She takes several deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but her heart only hammers harder. Her instincts are screaming and her eyes dart around, searching for the source of danger.

The room is deathly silent. He's not here.

The pieces click together: her Guide is in danger. In less than a second, she's tearing out of the door.

_Left, right, left._

How many seconds has she wasted?

_Right. Straight. Left, left, right, left._

Her instincts leads and she follows, running through the identical white walls, towering pillars and the endless, otherworldly maze that is Volterra—the tangle of strings conjured from Lilith's convoluted mind.

The pull grows stronger and then she sees it—three Acolytes surrounding her Guide. The creatures here—creatures like her—sniff out weakness like vultures sniff out rot. And they're cackling and shrieking.

"...kind of fool roaming around without his Acolyte?" She recognises the nasal voice. Jessica.

"Whoever she is, she's as useless as he is," another familiar voice says. "I saw him carrying an acolytic body one sunset ago. She's probably dead, which is why this newbie is _all alone."_ Tyler's last words are taunting, high like a child's and he twirls the electrical lighter between scarred fingers, his lips twisted in a nasty sneer.

If it were anyone else, Isa would've smirked. Maybe she would've joined in. Guides are rotten and while you couldn't hurt your own, the others are free kills.

A shaky laugh. "We should finish him off." The third Acolyte, Mike, sways where he stands. One eyelid droops and he twitches periodically—an unfortunate result of having Jane as a Guide. Isa is impressed he has lasted this long.

None of them senses her—infiltration is one of her many skills.

"Nobody touches him," she drawls, emerging with folded arms, her gaze cold.

Three heads snap up and Mike and Jessica immediately step back as though they've been burned. Tyler doesn't. He's new and he doesn't know her as well as the other two.

His eyes slide down her soiled, tattered dress lewdly, still spinning the lighter. "And who's this slut?"

Isa doesn't threaten. She doesn't give any warning. She strikes instantly, slamming the wretched creature to the ground, forcing his mouth open and grabbing the squishy, wet flesh that's his tongue.

None of the others interfere—this is Tyler's fight, not theirs. He's new and they're watching, seeing if he's worth his weight in words. Of course he isn't—not against her.

She pulls.

The soft flesh tears and skin rips, and he's choking, screaming wordlessly as blood streams to the ground.

Isa doesn't let him go. "I think your Guide will thank me for this," she says, keeping her voice pleasant. "You're much more likeable when you can't talk."

He elbows her, breaking a rib, but she's older than him, stronger, strong enough to hold him down even as he struggles. She intends to torment him, to break his spirit slowly. As she pinions him, she looks up, seeking and expecting approval in her Guide's eyes. Only, Edward's eyes are fixed on Mike.

Unexpectedly, he attacks, tackling the already-battered male.

Isa's so shocked, she forgets about Tyler for a split second. It's enough for him to break free. His fingernails claw through her face from eyebrow to chin, slashing through one eyelid. Blood obstructs her remaining eye but she's fought blind more than once.

A whistle—an incoming fist—and she ducks before her hand flies out and grabs his throat. She cuts off his air first and then she finds his nape, ripping through delicate nerves and incapacitating him completely. As his body twitches from the damage, she wipes the blood out of her eyes in time to see Jessica disappear around a corner, clearly not wanting to enmesh herself in this fight.

Mike is moaning feebly and Edward rises, blood splattered on his clothes.

"I never took you for the vengeful type," Isa mutters.

Tyler begins to stir as he heals and she knocks him out again. She thinks about killing him but then dismisses the idea. Now that she's established her dominance, he's more useful to her alive.

"Follow me." Edward's voice is in her ear, tense. He takes off without waiting.

Now that his full strength has returned, Isa finds that he's faster, more nimble than any of her previous Guides. Their connection hums. Unlike her other Guides, he's unguarded around her, and the open channel leaves his full strength completely accessible. She's never felt anything like it. The abundant flow of energy is thrilling, addictive and she's high on it, keeping up with him easily until his hand shoots out, signalling for her to do a sharp turn.

She's so used to obeying without question that it doesn't occur to her what he's done until they're running out of Volterra itself, away from the winding towers.

"Are we on a mission?" she asks.

He puts a finger on his lips, his expression tight.

Her mind races. They aren't on a mission. Then how did he find the way out?

"Edward—"

"Quiet."

She has no choice. Her heart bangs wildly against her chest as she follows, fear curling in her centre. Insolence is bad enough, but outright mutiny? Doesn't he know how easily the Originals can find them?

Then again, he shouldn't have been able to find a way out of the maze without explicit permission.

What has he done?

She's shaking when they finally stop, two cities away from Volterra. It isn't enough. Being halfway around the world wouldn't be enough.

She looks pleadingly into his wine eyes, freshly coloured by her blood, willing him to let her speak.

"I'm sorry," he says. His hands are trembling too as they reach into his coat. But his eyes are oddly bright with excitement. "You can speak now."

A metallic vial tinkles quietly as it falls into his palm and now that she's allowed to speak, she can't.

What he's holding out to her... it can't be.

"Is that..." She sounds choked.

"It is. While you slept, I've been listening to the minds around me. I tracked that Acolyte because he's Jane's. And Jane is Lilith's right hand." He's speaking quickly, his voice breathless with triumph. He presses it into her hands. "You're free."

She's stunned.

He's looking at her expectantly, and she knows that she should be joyful, tearful, grateful... But she's not. She feels overwhelmed.

"Isa?" he sounds uncertain.

"What will I do after I drink this?" Her voice trembles. Everyone she knows has been dead for a hundred years. Her home is a wasteland.

For the first time, she realises that she'd never truly believed that her freedom is possible. Not until it's resting in her palm, an evil woman's essence encased in slim titanium.

"I don't know." His answer is soft, and as she meets his eyes, she sees the depths of grief behind them. He understands, because it's a question that has been open to him until his recent predicament.

Because of her.

"What will _you_ do?"

"I don't know."

But she knows. He'll be dragged back and he'll be punished.

She doesn't realise that she's still capable of altruism until her heart squeezes painfully at the thought of leaving him to save herself. "Why?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know," he says again, this time there's a heaviness in his words. "Won't you drink it?"

If she doesn't, he'll be punished anyway.

If she does... will she be human? Will Lilith simply find her and kill her? Will she die from the accumulated century?

Everything she knows, it's from Lilith's taunts. From snatches of conversation by Originals who are perfectly able to communicate telepathically. Of course, they made her pay in blood for every word she overhears, but she'd believed at the time that it's worth it.

Now she isn't so sure anymore.

If she'd been alone with nothing to lose, she would drink it, uncertainty be damned. If she died free she'd be happy. But now, she finds the idea of abandoning him for a fate so ambiguous to be unbearable—not after she's brought him here, not after everything he's done. If there's anything left that's worth keeping alive in this world, it isn't her already rotten soul. It's him.

"I won't." Her answer is quieter than a breath but she feels oddly calm. "We should go back."


	21. Bella, I

She doesn't recognise the girl in the water's reflection. It's the same chocolate-brown eyes, the same chestnut hair, but everything is different. Gone are the dead eyes, in its place fervent devotion. The proud frame of her shoulders—it's more subdued now, everything about her is more muted. Unlike her first total surrender, she doesn't feel cowed. The emotion is strange—a deep calm unlike anything she's ever felt before.

The object of her devotion is two feet away, his eyes closed, forehead resting against his hands as he crouches beside the brown, filthy water. "You don't want to be free?" He's struggling to comprehend her madness.

"I do."

"Then why don't you drink the damn thing?" Angered, he slams his fist against the trunk of an already dying sapling. The dry, brittle wood cracks, showering them with dust.

"Because you won't survive in Volterra without me."

"Nobody survives Volterra." His voice is harsh and he rises, his hands curling into fists. "And I don't plan on trying. This is what we agreed to. Your freedom and mine."

"Dying isn't freedom."

" _What else is there?_ " His snarl echoes in the dead silence and he opens his arms wide, gesturing at the ghost town around them. The park is filled with dead weeds and dust, and what used to be residential buildings are on the verge of collapse.

"Your coven mates," she offers. "Alice and Jasper. I can help you find them."

"You think they want to see me?" He glares at her, those brilliant red eyes burning. "You think I want them to see me like this?"

"Like what?" His riddles confuse her. He's stronger now, faster and wholesome, nothing like the husk she'd found.

Repulsion roll off him in such heavy waves that she's momentarily stunned by the emotions slamming into her. And then there's a searing flash of hatred. He moves so fast that she doesn't realise what has happened until the act is done.

The eye is in his palm, liquid oozing gruesomely and as he moves to close his palm, to crush it, she's there, stopping him in shock.

" _What are you doing?"_ She's yelling but it has no effect on him whatsoever. She wrestles the eye from his grasp but he's reaching for the other.

"NO!"

She's holding him down, breathing hard. Drawing on his strength makes her stronger, and she subdues him easily, barring him from hurting himself.

"Let me go." His voice is calm, deadly, and she can't disobey. But he doesn't say when, so she dawdles, moving so slowly that his remaining eye flashes. "Now."

The nerves and vessels hang macabrely out of their empty socket. He holds out a hand for the eye but she steps away from him, shaking her head.

"Don't do it. Please," she pleads. "It'll take a few days to regenerate. We might be sent on a mission by then. I don't want to lose you." The last sentence slips out with little consideration and the words hang uncomfortably—adding an unwelcome layer of convolution to the brewing hostility.

His fury fades but the hardness doesn't leave his expression.

She looks away. "If you want me to go so badly, why don't you just order me to drink?"

There's little compassion in his answer. "I don't know what to believe anymore. You wanted me to die and then you don't. You wanted to be free and then you don't. Maybe it isn't your fault. Maybe it's Lilith's order that you're to create distraction after distraction to keep me from focusing on the actual problem." His voice becomes very soft. "Maybe it's poison you're holding and you don't even know it."

The titanium vial in her palm suddenly feels very cold.

"How did you get this? How did you find your way out of the maze?" She's breathless, stunned that decade after decade, she'd never considered the possibility of poison.

He shakes his head, collapsing onto a rusty bench. "Doesn't matter. She won't let it happen again." He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "You're right. I _am_ a fool. I've wasted the only opportunity..." The armrest dents under his grasp, and the heaviness weighs him down. But his anger has dulled and she takes the opportunity to come closer, resting a hand on his cheek.

"Open your eyes," she says softly.

Despite everything, he doesn't push her away. When he does as she asks, she gently returns the organ that he's so violently torn out back into its socket, watching as venom heals the fissures.

"My family and friends were taken from me in a raid," she tells him quietly. "It was my seventeenth birthday and we'd been celebrating. All of a sudden, the electricity went out. I woke up in a pile of bodies... I couldn't tell who was who. Then James—he was my first Guide—he came for me. _Congratulations_ , he said. _You survived alteration._ The same night, we raided another city. I did to others what had been done to me, and I was incapable of stopping myself." She takes a deep breath. The memories hardly hurt anymore, she'd relived them so often. "What I'm trying to say is, there are people out there who care about you. Few are as lucky as you are. So I think you should look for them."

His expression is difficult to read but she feels the tenor of his emotions changing until longing becomes a lone, piercing note.

"I don't know how," he says finally.

"I'll help you," she promises. If there's one thing she's learned from the constant raids, it's tracking. She knows terrain, layouts and hiding places like the back of her hand. "We'll do it at the next opportunity."


	22. Bella, II

Lilith is conversing with another when they return, a creature with ebony skin and snow-white hair spilling to her ankles. Her clothing is odd—the dress is intricately designed with long, loose sleeves but her thighs are uncovered, encircled by a multitude of silver beads.

Silver.

Isa stops dead and Edward doesn't advance without her, but Lilith does not even look up. A crease has formed between the Original's eyebrows and if Isa's assessment is right, she seems uneasy.

The words streaming from the unfamiliar female's lips are stranger still, an odd blend of throaty and musical noises—a flowing language with indistinct syllables. When she turns, Isa's heart jumps.

The creature's eyes—there aren't any irises, only sclera. When she moves, her feet do not touch the ground. Expressionless, looking at no one, she speaks once more and this time, it's resonant, native-sounding English. "I suppose it will have to do. Remember the limits."

And then she's gone.

Her exit is noiseless, unremarkable, and Isa might've thought she'd been hallucinating if Edward isn't also staring. But Lilith's scarlet eyes have shifted to her two subjects and they don't have the luxury of questions, the same way there's no need for them to explain what they've done.

She knows. Isa moves before Edward can, already at the dark mother's feet, presenting the vial to her. She's ready to receive any punishment in her Guide's stead.

The Original doesn't take it. She doesn't even look at the Acolyte kneeling before her. She's beaming at Edward. Isa wants to rise and defend but finds herself capable of neither.

"Well done," Lilith says fondly. "Your methods are unconventional but I see you've brought our unruliest Acolyte to heel. Congratulations. You've completed your first task."

Edward blinks.

The Original is no longer on her throne but directly beside him, her lips grazing his ear, her voice slithering. "You'd make an excellent replacement for Caius."

He recoils—just the slightest stiffening of his shoulders—and she laughs. "My, my, how arrogant."

A movement catches their eyes and it's Aro, gliding down from the ceiling like a horrid spider. "You should be honoured, Edward."

"Indeed." Marcus's entrance is far duller—an uneventful emergence from the shadows. He sits himself down beside the kneeling Acolyte, absent-mindedly winding her hair between his fingers.

Edward is rigid as a statue.

Lilith tilts his chin upwards, examining him as one would a doll. When she fingers the buttons on his breast, he jerks back, chagrinned. She raises an eyebrow and Edward catches himself in time to rectify his error.

"I must refuse. I'm entirely undeserving of the offer."

Lilith caresses his cheek. "You would refuse me?"

It's a trick.

An affirmative would mean insolence, a denial would be admitting a lie.

Edward is repulsed by her touch but holds himself still, choosing his words carefully. "I am unstable," he confesses, maintaining an air of contrition. "My mind is morbid—for the good of our kind and in your best interest, I cannot accept."

It's the truth no one can deny.

Lilith hums and comes to sit beside Isa, her hand curling delicately around where the Acolyte fists the vial. Her hair tickles Isa's shoulders and the sweet, feminine scent of the Original wafts in the air as she wraps a gentle arm around Isa, guiding her to her feet and bringing her before Edward.

Scarlet eyes flicker from Guide to Acolyte, unpredictable and wild, before her lips curve into a sudden, feral smile.

"I like this," she says, softly stroking Isa's hair. "I like this so much, I'll let you keep my venom as a gift." Her smile widens into a grotesque grin, revealing two rows of sharpened teeth.

-xx-x-xx-

Isa walks back alone, one bare foot after another pressing against the cool stone. She opens the vial. It smells pure. Why give it to her? Why order her back while holding Edward in the main hall? The separation makes her restless and uneasy and her instincts are screaming for her to turn back, except Lilith's order overrides it.

Miserable, she begins to ruminate and obsess over the possibilities—of what she'd seen, of what the strange creature can be—so much so that she doesn't notice the incoming ambush.

A blur of shadows and she's pinned.

"Hello, little slut."

Isa feels hands gripping each one of her limbs, and as strong as she is, she can't fight four of them. She recognises the voice. It's Victoria—and Isa doesn't know who she hates more between her and James. The female doesn't enjoy sharing as much as James, and she'd used every opportunity to hurt the Acolyte.

At her ankles looking pale and fearful are Tyler and Mike, but they're clearly under orders and incapable of disobeying.

"Can't let your Acolyte fight his own battles?" Isa spits. "How pathetic."

Victoria only laughs. "You misunderstand. I came as a favour to Jane."

Isa stops struggling.

The little girl is almost as bad as her mistress, her angelic features notwithstanding. Her hands are unyielding stones around Isa's left wrist. "You stole something of mine," she says sweetly.

Isa knows how to choose her battles. "You can have it back." She lets go of the vial and it clinks to the ground.

Jane makes no move to recover it. "You stole something more valuable when you decided to rob my Acolyte. You stole my repute and ruined my standing."

Isa's heart hammers. She can't die now—not when she finally has a purpose, not when she has someone to protect.

She opens her mouth to plead but Jane rests a stubby finger against her lips, silencing her. "Shh. It'll all be over soon."

Something plunges into her heart and her flesh begins to smoke. She recognises the acrid smell and the vicious, unbearable pain.

 _Silver_.

She can't get her hand free to pull out the dagger and she's convulsing as it burns her, the puncture rendering her incapable of even screaming.

"Don't worry, it's not pure," she hears Jane call out over the agony. "You'll have plenty of time to repent before it kills you." They're pulling silver chains all around her weakening body now too, dragging her into an isolated corner and lowering her into...

"No... " she gurgles. Not the coffin. Anything but the coffin.

"Sweet dreams." Jane waves, her smile radiant, and Victoria slams the lid in her face.


	23. Bella, III

Creaks echo all around her and gravity vanishes momentarily as the coffin is thrown, rattling her bones as it lands. Then there's the heavy sound of earth being heaped, and the small pockets of light disappear, throwing her into total darkness.

Panic is all she feels as the suffocation thickens.

She's seventeen once again, surrounded by smiles, a colourful, very misshapen cake on the table.

She stares at it in amusement and Jake's arm slides around her waist, his lips warm against her forehead. His grin is sheepish. _Sorry Bells, Embry might have accidentally sat on it in the car,_ he whispers. _But I swear, it tastes good. We made chocolate—your favourite._

She never got to try it. The smell of rot had awoken her and she'd been trapped in a sea of unmoving, bloodied bodies.

She'd lied when she told Edward she hadn't recognised them.

Jake's lifeless cheek had been pressed against hers. Her mother's body had been broken, draped over hers under a dozen others, as though she'd been trying, in her last moments, to shield her daughter from whatever that had been coming for them. Her lifeless eyes had still been open in horror—she'd seen what the rest had not.

The suffocation, the bodies, the nightmares... She keeps struggling until she's too weak to continue. The silver paralyses her and she sags within her bindings, fighting to breathe, fighting to live.

 _Edward_...

The darkness is coming for her.

Her heart is sputtering, bleeding, the silver dissolving its ability to heal. Muscles bloodless and immobilised, her eyelids begin to flutter shut despite her efforts.

"Bella, darling."

They're voices she hasn't heard for a century, calling a girl she'd thought long dead. Arms are embracing her. "You've come home. We've missed you."

Her eyes are wet, but before she can answer, an intense, wracking pain shatters the reunion. Lips parted in a silent scream, she feels as though her heart is being cleaved from her chest.

Blinding light bathes her vision and she blinks several times, gasping at the shadowy figure before her.

It's Marcus and he isn't smiling.

The dagger that has almost killed her is in his hand and a flick of his wrist shatters her chains into dust.

She's so damaged she can't move.

Marcus reaches into the coffin and lifts her up with one hand, holding her by the nape like a kitten. She wheezes, blood coagulating in the depths of her lungs. _Where's Edward?_ She wants to say but only manages to mouth it.

"I wouldn't worry about him."

Marcus slants his head, judging her damage, and her vision of him blurs. She's seeing double and then even that begins to fade. Fingers pry her lips open and she tastes venom, sparing but potent, and the precious few drops heal her enough that her sight returns.

"Why?" The word is an exhale but Marcus seems not to hear. He brings her closer, his lips grazing hers in that oddly platonic way. He's done this so often it no longer fazes her. But this is the first time he's interfered in her fight.

When he pulls away, his lips are stained with her blood and his tongue flicks out, tasting it. "You didn't drink your gift," he concludes, sounding vaguely unhappy.

She's too winded to reply.

He brings his free hand to his mouth, tearing the skin and letting a single drop fall into the gaping wound at her heart. Then he lowers her to the ground, kneeling so that they're on the same eye level. "Loose cannons everywhere, that's why."

He heard her question after all. His voice is forbidding, and his typically placid expression is gone, in its place a twisted hideousness. A strong, sinister energy radiates from his being and if she'd been able to move, she'd have fled from him.

"The era is coming to a close, Acolyte," he whispers. "And then the worthy will come forth to upend the darkness. Those who stand in the way of the prophecy will be dealt with."

Something cool is pressed into her palm—the vial—and then he leaves her still bleeding and slumped against cold stone. Her lungs have healed enough that she's able to scent her surroundings; she's outside her joint quarters, the door at her back. But that's the most she can do.

Time trickles by excruciatingly slow and she doesn't know how long she languishes before another pair of arms come around her, familiar in its gentleness, the scent of honey and lilac comforting.

"Ed...ward..." She tries to move but her head droops against his shoulder.

"Isa?" His arms cradle her soothingly and his projected calm is for her sake. She feels devastation and fury rolling off him in waves.

It's been so long since anyone has worried about her. She closes her eyes, sagging against him. "Don't... call me... that..."

He's peeling the stained remnants of fabric—poor excuses for clothing—off her skin. She feels the soft divan at her back and hears his sharp intake of breath when he sees the extent of the damage.

"Bella," she mutters. "My name..."

His wrist is at her lips, venom flowing freely but she's too weak to swallow much. It trickles down her the corners of her mouth and very gently, he tilts her jaw so that the liquid pools at the back of her throat.

When all it does is make her choke, the rage breaks through his calm.

"Who did this? What happened?"

She struggles to inhale. "Silver."

"I'll kill them," he promises her, his eyes burning. "I'll kill whoever did this."

He won't win against the devil child. "No..." Her hand reaches for his. "I'm... fine..."

His eyes flash but he restrains his anger, intertwining his fingers with hers. He's kissing the angry welts left by the chain on her wrist and she feels him sweep his tongue experimentally across it before he pulls back, watching the venom seal her skin together.

He leans in. "Bella." The name sounds right on his tongue. The affection, the lilt and the care that he takes to say it... the girl she'd shut away, the girl she's thought she'd buried forever, the one who she's believed died with the rest of her family... she stirs and awakens at such a passionate calling.

Edward isn't finished.

"I'll make you better," he promises. "And then, you'll tell me the truth. And after that, we _will_ kill them." The oath comes out low, every word steeped in savage fury.


	24. Alteration Cracks, I

Typically, after an incident this injurious, she would seek solitude. She'd spend hours, even days in hiding, licking wounds and soothing frayed nerves until she's summoned once again.

But this Guide's eagle eyes never leave her.

Unused to the attention, she waits until she's strong enough to move, attempting to scamper, careless of her nudity, but he puts a calming hand on her chest, willing her to stay. As much as she wants to trust him, old habits die hard. His touch, as soft as it is, reminds her of James' careless invasion and she becomes rigid.

He senses the change but doesn't understand, and his arms come around her, holding her snug, caressing her until he's coaxed some semblance of softness from her protective shell.

Lacerations still colour the more intimate parts of her skin that he has hesitated to heal. His affections soften her only momentarily—when she catches herself, she becomes aggressive.

" _Now_ you care about my modesty?"

Despite the brusque tone, her eyes are vulnerable, as though she doesn't know why she's lashing out.

He raises a hand to brush a stray lock from her face and she flinches. It takes him a moment to comprehend the speed and ease with which trust dissolves for her.

"We've been through this before, Bella," he murmurs, using the name she'd given him in her delirium. "Not directly, but I think we've established that we don't mean each other any harm."

She stares up at him, the irrational anger fading from her expression at his use of the name, and then she squeezes her eyes shut. "I want to be alone."

"Let me help you."

"I don't need your help!" she hisses, even as the effort makes her wince. "I chose to stay. I chose to help you. It was my decision—all of it. You don't owe me anything."

She pulls away and he lets her go, moving back to give her the space she needs, but that seems to enrage her even more. "I don't want your pity! I _hate_ it! I'm not... I'm not... I refuse to be a broken thing." Her eyes fill with tears that don't fall and out of consideration, he looks away, not speaking for several long moments.

"Do you pity _me_?" he asks quietly. "Is that why you're helping me?"

"No—"

"I'm not helping you because I pity you."

This seems to mollify her. It makes her pause. "Then why?"

He meets her gaze. "The same reason, I suspect, that you're helping me. Because it's the right thing to do."

Her expression twists and it's her turn to look away. "I'm not that selfless. I'm helping you because I don't have anywhere else to go." Her hand glides lightly over the barely healed wound at her heart and he understands that it's aching in more ways than one. His arms slide back around her, guiding her back onto the divan.

"Neither do I," he murmurs into her ear. "What does it matter? I know I'm in safe hands. And if you take my word for it, so are you."

She doesn't answer but she lets him hold her. She feels wrung out and laid bare, fatigued with the weight of their conversation and the shock of the attack. It's too much and she no longer wants to think.

In a bold, impulsive motion, she puts her hands on his shoulders and leans in to kiss him—only to pull back last minute.

Her face burns and she dips her head to hide it. She's never felt this inhibited since her human life and she's too overwhelmed to process her tangled emotions.

But he instinctively recognises her need because he rests his hand against her cheek, angling it upwards to capture her lips. The kiss is brief, tender but it feels far more intimate than any she's shared.

And she wants more.

The smell of her desire thickens in the air between them and after a while, she presses her pelvis provocatively against his, her gaze at once piercing and vulnerable, willing him to take what she's offering.

Without looking away, Edward runs his hands sensually down her spine until both are resting on the curve of her hips. He's starting to discern a pattern. Every time she's excessively confused, frightened or angry, it's sex she seeks. It's the way she connects, the only thing that has given her any pleasure in a life filled with pain.

And so he obliges, parting her legs and slowly inserting one finger, two and then three, stretching her until she's moaning, lost in desire, the fear and the doubt forgotten.

His thumb finds her clit, massaging in gentle circles as he moves his fingers steadily in and out, in and out, stroking her where she's sensitive, mindful of her injuries. She clenches around his fingers, holding his shoulders tight and he increases his speed, watching her pant, her expression almost pained.

"Come," he murmurs, curling his fingers, pushing them deeper, spreading her wider, and she shudders, her inner muscles rippling, her breasts heaving.

It's a quiet orgasm but she looks as dazed as the first time. He withdraws his slippery fingers and brazenly tastes them, watching her cheeks darken.

Her fingers trace his buttons, the lovely colour still staining her cheeks. "I thought..." She hesitates. "You never fuck me. And you didn't want Lilith. Do you..."

He traces her lips, understanding her implication. "I very much like to _fuck_ females," his tongue curves around her chosen word with some distaste. "Willing females, not those coerced by venom or curses."

She licks his finger, tasting the residue of her essence. "I want you," she says forwardly.

Her heart flutters at his expression. He looks so different with a smile, however small. "You'll have me," he promises, kissing an eyelid. "But for now, I want you to recover."


	25. Alteration Cracks, II

If there's something she knows about her Guide, it's that his words are not to be taken lightly. Now that she's come to care for him, the details that make him unique are more memorable to her. His golden-eyed family. His entrapment in the time void. Lilith's eagerness to have him.

She's curious.

Despite his outward composure, she feels the anger still brewing deep inside him, overriding the initial emptiness. His rage on her behalf is unusual, his continued affection unexpected.

He spent two days by her side soothing her from the nightmares, feeding her precious venom, so much so that she can feel him weaken. Now that the terror has dissolved, now that she can think more clearly, she regrets her outburst.

A hand caresses her cheek.

He's urging her to open her eyes for the next feeding but she catches his already raw wrist, stopping him. She's strong enough—stronger than he is. It's another one of his oddities that he's eager to give her strength. None of her other Guides ever intentionally allowed it, preferring to cut her off and hoard the vigour for themselves, out of pride, out of distrust, sometimes out of mere spite.

"I don't need any more," she murmurs, brown eyes finding deep crimson.

The initial emptiness has vanished and the difference is startling. Now that his purpose has returned, there's a subdued elegance to his bearing, an indomitable will anchored in equanimity burning in his gaze. Despite being her physical inferior, he radiates strength and the Acolyte in her is drawn to it. She will follow him anywhere.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she says, remorseful. "I wasn't well. But still, it was unreasonable of me to—..."

He puts a finger to her lips and moves closer, pressing their bodies together so that they're skin to skin and she can feel the echo of her heartbeat against the solid mass of his body. There's so much peace in this simple act that her tension drains away entirely and the breath leaves her lungs in one long exhale. The feeling that washes over her is unfamiliar and it takes her a moment to identify it—contentment. She hasn't felt content in a hundred years.

"Your reaction was understandable," he says, touching his lips to her forehead. "Considering everything you've been through, I'm grateful you trust me at all."

Once again, she's floored by his ability to simply understand. In their ruined world, it's every man for himself. She'd believed empathy to be extinct. It's the altruists who die first and, after one hundred years, they die out. She'd seen it happen, over and over again. His survival had been pure chance—he'd been trapped in a time void. Her resolve to keep him alive strengthens.

"Thank you, Edward," she says, engraving his name in her mind. He's not another nameless Guide who uses her and dies. He's special, and she'll do her damnedest to keep him alive. And if, god forbid, she fails, she'll remember him even if she forgets her own name.

"There's nothing to thank. Now tell me honestly," his tone turns forbidding, the statement purposefully an order. "What happened?"

Her fingers curl around his wrist—scarred from her constant feeding—and she curbs her frustration. Now that she wants to protect him, he has to seek danger. No one has ever bested Jane.

"Marcus saved me," she stalls.

That makes him stiffen, and she secretly congratulates herself on the distraction. Male vampires are territorial, and underneath the layers of restraint, he's no different.

"Again?" He frowns, the instinct already curtailed. "How often has he done this?"

"He's always been rather friendly. But this is the first time he interfered," she admits. Thinking fast before he redirects the conversation, she shoots her own question. "Why did Lilith hold you back?"

Edward's expression is coloured with revulsion and distrust. "Thankfully, she discontinued her persuasion. She wanted my opinion on Volterra and on you. We've been... _promoted_ ," he says the word with some misgiving but Bella's eyebrows shoot up.

"Promoted?" she breathes.

"We're now allowed to enter and leave Volterra whenever we want, whatever that means."

She stares at him, incredulity etched on her face. "Are you sure? Are those her exact words?"

He nods. " _You are allowed to enter and leave the premises as you please_ ," he repeats verbatim.

Bella's mind is spinning. They haven't done anything of value. In her hundred years of being in Volterra, she's only known of a handful of the elite Sworn who have been permitted to do such a thing.

He must be extraodinary, even more so than she'd suspected. Of course he is. She just had been too blinded by her pain to recognise it. He'd managed to escape the premises with a vial of Lilith's own venom. And the queen hadn't raised a finger against him. She'd even offered him a spot in her harem. And he'd refused. He'd emerged from that unscathed too.

"What's your gift?" she asks sharply. "Seeing the future?"

Strangely enough, he stiffens at the mention. "No."

"Premonition?"

He shakes his head. "How do you know I'm gifted?"

"The Volturi only takes those with Gifts," Isa says. "I'm gifted too. Doubly." One corner of her lips tug upwards. "You're in the hands of Volterra's most capable Acolyte." Her expression isn't proud, it's resigned, and the playfulness falls short.

But just for a second, her eyes had sparkled, and he finds himself beginning to develop a genuine warmth for the girl. "Well, I'm honoured," he replies, smiling tentatively. "But your guesses are wrong."

When he doesn't elaborate, she becomes somewhat cool. "Are you afraid to tell me?"

Realising that it's still too early for banter, he quickly rectifies his error. "Not at all. I was curious to hear more of your ideas."

"Edward, I'm here to protect you." She doesn't trust his justification—and even though he understands why, it eats at him, just a little. "Even if I was capable of hurting you, I won't. I chose to stay with you, remember? I could've left." Her hand tightens around the vial—she hasn't let go of it since they'd entered the room—and it's an unspoken message. _I still can leave._

The implication twists at his gut even though it shouldn't. And then he does something he knows he shouldn't. He knows she's attracted to him, at least physically. And he knows she's more docile after intimacy, more suggestible and pliant. He leverages both by tilting her chin up gently, capturing her lips, kissing them languorously, tenderly until she's limp in his arms, her eyes closed.

When he pulls back, her grip on the vial has loosened and he feels like scum.

"I read minds," he confesses breathlessly. "And I'm sorry. If you should want to leave this contemptible place, I won't stop you." His eyes slide to the vial in her hand, and he hates himself for wanting to take it away. "Actually, you _should_ leave." If he's as good as she believes, he would order her to drink it. He should. Before he can consider it, she's spoken.

"That wasn't what I meant." She looks at him and her eyes are fierce. "I'll protect you at all costs. I want to. Don't you dare take this away from me."

 _I'm not strong enough to._ But he doesn't say it. Saying it makes it real, and he wants to undo it when it can.

"Reading minds..." Her mind is elsewhere, the hardness returning to her eyes. "So you've read my mind all this time? That explains a lot."

"No," he says instantly. "You're an exception." It's so easy to lose her faith—like walking on glass. "Please, Bella. Don't always assume the worst of me."

She shakes her head, catching herself. "I'll try my best. All of this is so new to me. You, me, trust. It's confusing. Usually it's you, me, fuck. Or, you, me, orders. I can't tell you how strange this feels. I've never thought that I'd be here willingly. Or that I'd ever like someone in your position."

The confession throws him off and she notices.

And she's entirely unabashed about it, her lips curling into a smirk. "Yes, Edward. I like you. I like you so much, I still want to fuck you."

He's wrong. She's not _entirely_ unabashed. Her cheeks are turning a little pink, the smirk turning into a somewhat bashful smile.

It looks endearing on her—something he'd never seen before, and he finds himself mirroring her expression.

"Dear girl," he says, when he finally finds his tongue. "Is that the only thing on your mind?"


	26. Alteration Cracks, III

**Chapter 26: Alteration Cracks, III**

Her laughter is lovely, like bells, and she pushes off him, her body lithe as she springs fancifully onto the window sill, unhooking the translucent outer curtains and draping them around her graceful form.

The covering dips between her breasts and he notices something unusual; unlike him, she doesn't scar. It's as though the gash never existed. Her skin is smooth, unblemished and she's more lively than before, eyes vibrant, her footfalls lighter than the wind.

A slender arm is raised and she dips into an overly-exaggerated curtsy, the curtains swishing. "Is this more acceptable to your senses, oh virtuous Edward?"

Without waiting for an answer, she springs once more, landing feather-light on top of him, her elbows on either side of his shoulder.

"Or are you secretly wishing I weren't so... proper?" She bats her eyelashes at him coyly and he chuckles, snaking an arm around her waist, his warm gaze turning into something more predatory.

He leans close. "It's irrelevant," he murmurs in her ear, hands sliding to her hips, gripping them and drawing her body to his so that she can feel just how appealing he finds her. "I already like you very much."

Her breath catches but his agenda is still at the forefront of his mind, more insistent than his desire. "You're distractingly beautiful, Bella. And very clever. But I still want to know what happened."

She deflates.

"Edward." Her face fills with concern. "This is a bad idea. Let's live and let live."

His eyes burn. "Live and let live? You were half-dead when I found you."

"But I'm fine now. Marcus—..."

"...might not be there the next time it happens." His tone is flat, his eyes hardening, and she realises it's a mistake to mention the Original. Whether her Guide realises it or not, there's some jealousy mixed in with his desire for vengeance. "My creator may have been compassionate to his bones, but before he taught me his ways, I was feral like the rest. I understand wildlings better than you think. If we don't fight back, they'll only strike again."

She bites her lip. "Edward, I know. I plan to—"

"To try and appease the ones who tried to kill you? To offer amenities in exchange for your life?" His eyes flash. "No. I won't stand for it."

She grasps his shoulder. "Listen to me. I'll tell you who it is. It's Jane. And she's Lilith's right hand—you saw that for yourself. Her gift is excruciating. You won't win."

"So you'd rather grovel?"

"I'd rather you _live_ ," she says determinedly. "And if that means I have to grovel, then yes, I will!"

He runs a finger across her cheek, touched by her loyalty but unswayed from his position. "You won't." His eyes fall to the vial. "Why don't you drink that? You'll be free to go and with my new privileges, I'll... I'll visit you. If you want me to."

She's deaf to his words, let alone his uncertain suggestion. He already sees it in the set of her jaw.

"I'm staying, Edward."

"Then why not remain here willingly as one of the Sworn? You'll stay, with your freedom."

She shakes her head. "I won't be connected to you like I am now. I won't be able to sense when you're in pain or in danger. If you die because I was careless—..."

He holds up a hand to stop her and he says his next words slowly, emphasising each syllable. "My life isn't your concern."

"I've made it my concern," she insists.

Edward takes her jaw, his eyes intense. "No. Don't you see? Everything you feel, it's part of the curse. You don't really _want_ to serve me. Once you're free, you might not even like me. This is an illusion."

She shakes her head, unwilling to even consider his words. "You're wrong."

"You're too afraid to start anew," he says steadily. "You want your freedom but you're too afraid to be alone so you'd rather stay in this hellhole and—..."

"Stop," she says but he doesn't.

"...and I'm not going to survive forever. No one does in Volterra. I'm going to die and you're going to lose your chance at freedom. Maybe I'll die tomorrow. Think about it. Who's going to be your next Guide? Another psychopath like your first? What was his name again? Jam—..."

"STOP IT!"

Tears pool in her eyes and she's not looking at him. "Just stop it."

Edward stares at the pallid ceiling, his own feelings a storm. He'd said what needed to be said and he'd pushed it in the places he knew would hit her the hardest. It was cruel, but she's stubborn as a rock and she wouldn't have listened any other way.

"I'm staying." Her voice is soft but filled with resolution. "Say what you want. Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong."

Edward doesn't have anything left to say. He exhales, trying to dispel the tension in his chest before he looks down into those stalwart brown eyes.

"Do what you like," he says, his own voice decisive. "But if you're staying, we're not lying low. We're going to show the others exactly what happens to those who provoke us."


	27. Blood, I

Isa flits down the corridor, her feet making no noise as she moves swiftly from one pillar to another.

Despite her misgivings, she's calm and focused, the way she always is when she's observing instructions. This is her element—and she's very good at what she does.

She remains still as a statue, camouflaged amidst the pure whites of Volterra in her flowing clothes. A quiet breeze blows past her and she inhales, tasting the air, differentiating the fine flavours on her tongue.

He's here.

A muffled whimper confirms it and she doesn't wait, flinging the door open and letting it crash theatrically into the wall.

"Mike," she greets sweetly, eyeing the bleeding figure hunched under the table. "How are you?"

He pales, bolting jerkily for the other door only to find Edward leaning against it.

Isa shuts the first door, retrieving the silver chains from her layers of fabrics and wrapping it around the locks. Her skin hisses as it touches the poisonous metal but she continues, eerily calm, until the door is tightly bound.

Mike's eyes follow her movements.

He recognises the symbol—she's handling the very things that nearly killed her—and he's sweating.

When she advances, draping her arms around her Guide, he starts to shake, muttering to himself the way he often does. "You're fucked. You're fucked." His eyes slide to her, admirably defiant despite his fear. "What do you want from me?"

He limps backwards, and it's obvious Jane hasn't been gentle with him. His eyelid is coloured purple on top of its usual droop and he's twitching even more than usual.

"I think you know," Isa says, as Edward takes her palms between his hands, pressing his lips against them until his venom seals her wounds.

Mike's bottom lip trembles. "And you know I didn't have a choice."

Isa's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "What makes you think _I_ do?"

Mike's eyes shift to Edward. "Please. I'm sorry about the attack. I don't want any trouble. Jane alrea—"

In a flash, Isa gags Mike and holds him down as he struggles. Tears are running down down his bruised face as he screams through the gag.

Edward is stone cold, towering over the two Acolytes as he speaks.

"I have some questions for you."

Mike isn't listening, still fighting tooth and nail to get free, and Isa tightens her already iron grip, splintering a bone in a way she knows hurts the most. His tortured howl is muffled by the gag.

"Keep struggling and I'll hurt you even more," she hisses.

Mike is breathing hard through his nose but he settles, understanding that it's impossible for him to break free.

"What is Jane's weakness?"

Mike's beady eyes fix themselves on Edward, bewildered.

"Is that why she tried to kill my Acolyte? How do you know this?"

Realisation dawns and Mike's struggles grow violent. He begins to bang his skull against the stone floor, trying to knock himself out. Isa grabs his head, stopping him as more blood pools around them.

"It's too late," Edward says to the helpless Acolyte, unsmiling. He turns to his own. "Isa," he uses her impersonal name. "We're done here."

She removes Mike's gag and her voice is hard. "Any last words?"

"Please." He's begging, his already bruised eye swelling from their struggle. "You know I never wanted to do any of this."

"But you'll still protect her," she says, pushing him down, baring his throat, reaching for her blade.

"I can't _not_ ," he sobs. "You know how it is! You _know_!"

"Then you know we can't _not_ kill you."

When he sees the knife, he loses it, muttering to himself, eyes darting around frantically. "You promised your sister. You promised. You can't die now. You _can't_."

The small flash of humanity makes Isa lower her knife.

She's forgotten how young Mike is. He's only been here for two months—and still, longer than any of Jane's previous Acolytes.

His unwitting revelation makes the pieces click—the reason why Jane hasn't broken him, why there's still light in his eyes. Mike is living on for someone else.

"How old is she?" she asks.

He clamps his lips together, clearly terrified she'll kill the only family he has left, and the protectiveness makes something tighten in her chest.

"Bella," Edward's voice is soft, audible only to her, and he tries to coax the blade from her hand. "If we don't kill him, Jane will kill us."

"I want to know exactly what I'm doing." Her hand tightens around the knife, refusing to hand it over. "And please, _don't_ call me that when we're doing something this despicable."

Edward doesn't fight her, his voice quiet. "She's thirteen."

It's all Isa needs to know. Before Edward can react, she's emptied Lilith's vial down Mike's throat, holding his lips shut so that he's forced to swallow.


	28. Blood, II

Several things happen at once. Edward jerks Isa's arm back belatedly and the empty vial clinks to the ground, rolling away into an unseen corner.

Edward is speaking, saying something in shock but she's not listening. Her eyes are on Mike, on his wide, baby blue eyes as they stare up at her. His hand flies to his throat, his lips parted, and he chokes, rolling to his stomach, heaving.

Liquid pours from his mouth—colourless and pungent, collecting on the ground around him to merge with the blood, spreading, almost touching her feet when arms come around her waist, lifting her up and away from the sordid puddle.

"Why?" Her Guide's voice is once again in her ear, stunned.

She closes her eyes. "Because I'm not worthy."

Goodness is a rare thing, love even more so—and she believes in preserving what she no longer has in herself.

Mike has stopped retching and he's limp on the ground, exhausted, his heart still beating.

Edward puts his Acolyte down, sitting her on the edge of a table and she rearranges her features, her air once more that of cool arrogance.

"Well, Mike?" she calls. "Feel any different?"

Shakily, the boy pushes himself up, staring at his body as though he can't believe it. His drooping eyelid has healed, as has his twitching. When he rises, he moves slowly, steadily, not a scratch on him.

He's human.

He backs away from them, swallowing audibly. "What did you do to me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Isa says offhandedly. "I might have set you free. You look prettier to me that way."

"Free?" he repeats the word, his voice uncharacteristically soft with awe, his eyes glassy.

Isa doesn't want to watch this. She doesn't want to see what she's given up. Hopping off the table, she turns to leave. "Best to save the breakdown for later. You don't anyone finding you like this, do you?"

Her hand is at the door when Mike calls out after her. "Wait."

"I don't owe you any answers," she says, her voice unexpectedly rough.

But Edward's hand rests on her shoulder, restraining, and she heeds it, turning to face the human boy.

"There's something you might want to know," Mike says, running a nervous hand through his flaxen hair. He keeps his distance from them, as though he's afraid they might attack him again. "Your gift of immunity—it extends to Jane as well, not just Aro. I heard them talking about it to someone in the shadows." He swallows, dropping his voice so that they're made to read his lips. "Someone named Eleazar. Something big is happening. Something the Originals are hiding from all of us, including Jane."

His face tightens and Isa understands. Jane is furious at being kept out of the loop. All that anger—she's taken it out on her Acolytes.

"I hope you kill her," he says, his shoulder straightening. He's a world away from the incoherent, broken Acolyte he'd been minutes ago. Without his pained hunch, his athleticism is noticeable, and without the disfigurement, he's a handsome young man. She sees the boy he could've been, in another world.

"Have you ever thought of playing football?" she blurts, unable to resist.

A crease forms between his brows. "Sorry?"

"You know, a bunch of people kicking round a ball, trying to get it into the goal post?"

He looks only more confused and she shakes her head. "Forget it."

He's too young to know her world.

-xx-x-xx-

"You think he'll make it out?" she asks, as they round a corner.

Edward glances at her. "He's already gone."

"What do you mean?"

"Volterra is a maze, and as you know, a part of Lilith's mind. He's no longer bound to these walls. When he opens that door, he'll find himself at the gates."

"I see." Her pang of regret is muffled, clouded by something more urgent. Her gaze moves to her Guide, studying him carefully.

His breathing is somewhat uneven and he isn't pressing her for answers about the vial. Something is off. She takes the lead, veering towards their quarters instead of Jane's, and he doesn't even notice, his eyes unfocused.

"Edward?"

One yard away from their door, he buckles, and she catches him around the waist.

Something is familiar about this. Her mind races, but she can't identify where she's seen it before.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, trying to pull away, but she doesn't let him. He's weak, so weak—and then it hits her.

"You need to feed." She hauls his arm over her shoulders, supporting his weight. He's given too much and taken too little. She's seen this draining often in Acolytes, never in Guides.

"I wish that weren't true." His smile is resigned. "How strange. I've refrained for a century without this problem."

"A _century_?" she repeats, shocked. She'd known he isn't fond of feeding, but she'd never realised the extent of his idiosyncrasy. "Are you mad?"

"Aren't we all?"

Her glare is fierce. "This is Volterra. This isn't a place for imprudent decisions. When you need to feed, you fucking _feed_."

"Still thinking about _fucking_ ," he mumbles as they reach their quarters but she doesn't smile.

"You might've survived a hundred years without blood before but it's different here. You're losing venom—through me. This is dangerous. What if someone ambushed us? You can't do this again, do you understand?"

She takes the blade, slitting open the skin at the base of her throat. Warm blood flows and she sits onto the divan, pulling him over her, guiding his lips to her throat.

As with the first time, he takes sparingly, just enough that his eyes are the dark red of roses. And, just like the first time, her blood's aphrodisiac scorches through his being.

There's something more intimate in the fact that they're both clothed, controlled, the unacknowledged sensuality searing high in-between. His tongue runs languidly across her collarbones, his eyes seeking hers.

She curls an arm around his head and he rests his cheek between her breasts, his ear pressed against her heart.

"Why didn't you just tell me you were thirsty?"

Edward's hand is on his Acolyte's ribs, caressing her over the layers of fabric, slowly cajoling her fire to burn higher.

"I mentioned my creator once," he says, inhaling the sweet scent of her desire.

"You did. You said he was compassionate—that he taught you his ways." Her hand covers his, directing it to her breast.

He hums in agreement. "I was a feral thing and he took me under his wing. Our coven didn't feed on humans. We preyed on animals instead."

"Animals?" she breathes. "Is that possible?"

"It is." He removes his hand, running his fingers gently over the edges of her collar. "Your warmth is lovely."

She softens.

"I'm glad it pleases you."

The scripted words slip out unbidden, words she'd said a thousand times between gritted teeth, and she'd never expected to echo the sentiment in actual feeling.

Until now.

He shifts, moving up to take her mouth hungrily in his. The kiss is unlike his slow, gentle ones—it's deep and probing and she likes how he's exploring the depths she's offering freely.

Too soon, he pulls away.

Her lips feel swollen, her body heated and he's nimbly undoing the strings of her dress. His neck is inches from her lips, purposefully bared to her but she only kisses him.

"I want to know what it feels like to want it without venom, without orders... nothing." The last word is a soft breath against his skin.

He kisses her forehead. "As you wish."

He's easing out of his shirt as she peels her layers off gracefully, letting the fabrics float to the ground. As eager as she feels, she's not sure what this is. The girl who remembers the better times, the girl who's innocent and remembers romance—she's terrified. The last time she'd been truly willing, there had been fresh linens and the flicker of scented candles. Now, there are walls made from a madwoman's mind and bloodstains.

What she's giving—or taking—now, it's a formless, uncertain thing. It's desperation, hope, confusion, all curled within the relentless need. She doesn't believe herself capable of recognising true affection from simple skill.

But he's so gentle.

His lips, his fingers and—the part of him she finds most fascinating—his eyes, they're soft and coaxing and her body responds to his manipulations, softening, spine curling and more wetness trickles forth.

When he eases himself into her, her moan blends with her breath and she holds him tighter.

Intense. Frightening. Exhilarating.

She's been fucked many times in this very room but never like this. Never with eyes this soft, never so nakedly willing as she is now.

He snaps his hips once more and she whimpers, spreading, and he continues, never looking away, his eyes drinking hers until her soul feels open to him and she peaks—an achingly slow but violent climax, each shudder fracturing more of her walls.

When he brushes his knuckles underneath her eyes, she's astonished to find her cheeks damp.

"Bella," he murmurs and she cradles his body, cushioning it in hers even as she hides her face in his shoulder.

The cracks are mending and she's starting to feel whole again.


	29. Blood, III

Edward runs his hand down his Acolyte's spine, enjoying her peaceful afterglow. Her ribs expand and contract and he admires the smoothness of the movement, the elegant way her muscles and skin shift to the rhythm of each breath.

Her eyelids flutter open, sleepy brown eyes finding his before she stretches and closes them once more.

He doesn't miss the trust behind the gesture and unexpected warmth expands in his chest. It's a creeping sensation that's been a growing concern for him.

Companionship and sex are nothing new among immortals—with many engaging multiple partners while forming attachments going little beyond general fondness, but the warmth he's feeling for her is something different. It's more.

The taste of her blood is still rich on his tongue and he doesn't know what to make of his emotions. Are they chemicals fashioned by her body designed to bind him to her as she's bound to him? Edward wouldn't put it past Lilith to orchestrate something so devious, even to those she claim to be her favourite, precious children—her Sworn, the Guides, those gifted with Acolytes to ensure their survival. After all, as disposable as Acolytes may seem to those like Jane, he knows it isn't so.

Not everyone survives the alteration.

If his Acolyte's words are anything to go by, very few rise from the ashes of fallen cities. Fewer still survive under their assigned Guides.

A purpose greater than dominion is driving the Originals. Edward has always suspected this and the human boy has confirmed it. But if not to conquer the humans, then what? Why gather the Sworn and create Acolytes?

He's so close and yet, pieces of the puzzles are missing.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Those uncannily perceptive eyes—they're staring at him, expectant and alert as ever.

Edward's hand has paused at the small of her back and he runs them gently up her spine, resting them on the bump of one shoulder and a quiet hum reverberates from the depths of her chest—a purr.

He watches her carefully. "Do you realise how different you are after sex?"

She opens her eyes once more and this time her gaze is lazy.

"Not sex per se," she disagrees. "Climax."

He pauses. "That's right. You're far... tamer."

She yawns, not seeing the significance. "Isn't everyone?"

He straightens. "Not to this extent. You've been..." he can't find the words but his meaning is coming across to her. Her brows pull together.

"I see," she mutters.

"Do you?"

"I do." Her muscles are rigid and her sleepiness has all but vanished. "You're saying that what I've come to feel for you has nothing to do with what you've done and everything to do with my design."

"What do you feel for me?" His voice is soft, curious, but it's the wrong thing to ask. The blood is draining from her face and she's staring at him as though he's wronged her.

"I see it now. Climax triggers attachment." Her bottom lip trembles. "You knew. That's why Lilith congratulated you. You discovered a key that no one else did. You... you deceived me. I thought you were different. I should've known th—..."

"Stop." The order slips out inadvertently and her eyes harden as she's cut off mid-sentence. "Bella—..."

"Don't call me that!" she snarls, tensing. He sees her intention; she's planning to flee before he can speak.

"Stay where you are and stop interrupting me." The order is terse and he feels a pang as her jaw clenches, his command forcing her body to betray her mind.

"Bell—Isa," he corrects himself. "I'm sorry. But you misunderstand. What I've just told you—it's something I've just noticed myself. To say that I orchestrated this... that I planned to trick you all along is ridiculous. I have nothing to gain from it. And if I did, why would I share it with you? Why would I have offered you freedom?"

Her face is closed to him, her emotions concealed.

"You're free to speak."

She doesn't.

"Isa?"

"I have nothing to say," she says impassively.

"Why?" Her actions are beyond his comprehension. "What have I done?"

When again, she doesn't respond, he grits his teeth. "Explain your reasoning."

"I hate you," she says, pure loathing in her eyes. "You're like James. You pretend to gain my trust so you can destroy me more thoroughly. And after you know you've got me, you offer me freedom to show me how much _I_ fucked myself over. How much _you_ won. Well, there you go. You won. I lost. I get it. NOW STOP MINDFUCKING ME!" She's yelling, entirely unhinged.

Edward understands that her thinking is warped from the century of abuse but it doesn't stop him from gaping at the insanity she's spouting.

He's so stunned that he can't speak for several long moments.

"I did everything in my power to set you free," he says, unable to keep his voice even. "I did everything to earn your trust. But if you choose to twist everything to suit your conclusion—"

"Not everything," she disagrees, already withdrawing. "You could've ordered me to drink it. You didn't." She's staring at him. "You weren't there when Jane almost killed me. You planned this with her. With the Originals. It was why Marcus came to my aid. Why we went for Mike first—"

"Going for her Acolyte first was your idea!" Edward exclaimed, unable to believe what he's hearing. "It's the most logical choice!"

"THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU ORDER ME TO DRINK?" Her eyes are wild, vulnerable and confused. "If you truly cared, why didn't you?"

Edward's hands shake, but he forces himself to meet her gaze. He owes this to her.

"Because you were right all along—I'm selfish. I wanted you here with me. And that... that makes me as bad as the rest of them. You're right."

The hurt and anger in her brown eyes vanish, replaced by tears.

She looks away and the silence drags for several minutes. When the tears swimming in her eyes finally fall, he can no longer bear the distance. He moves closer, putting a hand on her shoulder, relieved when she doesn't push him away.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," she says, shaking her head. "I'm broken. I'm broken as fuck. My mind... all of it. Y-y-you have no idea how it feels when you can't even trust your own instincts, your own feelings... because they're all hardwired to screw you. I second guess myself a million times, I—..." Her voice breaks and she stops speaking, shaking her head once more, droplets falling onto the tangled sheets.

He exhales, not knowing how to offer comfort when he's a source of her distress. He says the only thing he can think of.

"If we kill Jane, will you believe that all of this isn't a trick?"

She covers her face.

"No," she whispers. "No, I still wouldn't. Because Jane is nothing to you."

"What you want, I can't give you," he says at last, his voice rough. "I can prove myself a thousand times and it wouldn't matter. I could offer you the vial and you would refuse it again. As for ordering you take your freedom... don't you find that contradictory?"

"I can't do this," she says at last. "I can't trust you... or anyone. I'm incapable of it."

Edward curls his hand around her arm. "And yet you trust me to touch you..." he murmurs. "You trust me to tell me all of this."

"You mistake the absence of choice for trust." Her smile is sardonic but he's learned enough of her ways to know that she's softest when she's pretending to be hard.

He leans closer. "That's not true and you know it. You trust me... just not completely. Not yet. And I understand."

Suspicion flash in her eyes again and she's pulling away. "Why would you be so good to me?"

He realises his mistake—she's incapable of accepting goodness for the sake of goodness. At least in him. So he communicates in a way that she _will_ understand.

"It's nicer to fuck a willing body."

Her eyes widen at his unexpected coarseness but she doesn't contradict him.

Pleased with himself for finding a solution and relieved that this outburst—out of the many she'll no doubt have in the future—has been dealt with, Edward rises.

"Now, shall we kill Jane? We have a reputation to protect."


	30. Blood, IV

His Acolyte trails behind him, silent and unhappy, and he ignores her moodiness, treading silently across the eerie white walls of Volterra, seeking the scent of the evil little girl.

But there isn't any need—her voice is audible from where they're standing, echoing through the suddenly resonant walls.

"I don't understand."

A second is all it takes for Edward and Isa to approach the magnificent doors of the main hall. Jane is standing before the queen, her angelic mask marred by cracks of fury and disbelief.

"What do you mean I'm not getting another?" It's as shrill as she dares to be to their ruler.

"You were supposed to keep your current one for at least half a year," Lilith's posture suggests boredom, the arch of her eyebrows impatience.

Jane looks like she will throw a tantrum. "I did everything you asked—... "

"And I allow you to live despite your insolence," Lilith says smoothly, already turning away, but Jane doesn't understand. She's used to getting her way.

The denial throws her into a rage and she stamps her foot, forgetting her place.

"I didn't injure him _that_ badly! His body was nowhere to be found! Someone else did this, someone like..." she takes a breath to continue screaming and catches a whiff of the two observers, "... _you._ " Her eyes narrow at the sight of Isa, whose spine straightens, fists curling in preparation for a fight.

The muscles in Jane's cheek twist in a promise of pain before her attention snaps back to the queen.

"I want one more! I deserve—"

Isa holds her breath; this level of impertinence is unacceptable, even for Jane.

Lilith's brows rise marginally higher but it's Marcus who takes action. A flick of his hand and he kills the little girl without touching her. Diamond hard skin burns, crumbling to dust and Jane is a pile of ashes before she can finish her sentence.

The corners of Lilith's lips turn downwards in disapproval. "That was unnecessary."

"Oh Lilith, I believe it was long overdue," Marcus replies. "You're too soft on her."

"She was useful."

"She was never meant to be."

There's a split second of eye contact and wordless communication passes between the two Originals. Finally, Lilith shrugs in a rare act of acquiescence. "If you think so."

Marcus's eyes flicker towards Isa and Edward before he sinks into a graceful bow, taking Lilith's slender hand in his, pressing his lips reverently against her knuckles. "I'm glad you understand."

For a heartbeat, Lilith's serpentine face softens and she threads her free hand through Marcus's hair. Then she pulls away, dismissive.

"Aro," she calls.

As her favourite lover approaches, she yanks him close, bending him so that his throat is bared to her. Aro remains pliant and submissive as Lilith sinks her teeth into his skin, draining him until he sags, eyes fluttering shut. She lifts his limp form, cradling it against her breast and raises her head, looking at Edward.

"Come closer." Her words are a hiss, unearthly and saturated with the might of a being who has lived since the beginning of time.

Edward makes as though to step forward and Isa can't help herself—she catches his arm. Her entire body is rigid, hairs raised in repulsion and fear, and her instincts are screaming at her to keep her Guide far, far away from the evil perched on the throne.

She's no longer there.

Aro's unconscious form is slack on the slab of stone— _alone_ —and delicate, feminine fingers trace Isa's shoulders, plucking at her sleeves so that her dress slips several inches.

"Isa," Lilith croons. "So protective. So full of hate. Which is it? I can take this one away and give you another. Will that satisfy you?"

Isa spins around, defiant, but Lilith is already gone, standing behind Edward, her sharp fingernails tracing his heart.

"I wonder if you're more trouble than you're worth," she whispers in his ear. "Your progress is stagnating and Jane's death is a result of your interference." Her eyes find Isa's. "What do you say to an easier replacement?"

"Easier?" Isa echoes.

Lilith smiles. "Someone who won't dig, darling. Someone with a simpler mind, baser instincts. It's your preference, isn't it?"

In one sharp motion, her fingers pierce through Edward's chest, closing around his unbeating heart. He jerks, his body caught in her invisible strings and Isa doesn't think.

She's pure instinct, lashing out at the queen with the intent to kill.

Lilith halts Isa's strike with a simple glance, but not before the tip of the dagger brushes the queen's cheek.

A line of red forms on Lilith's skin.

Blood.

When Isa blinks, it's gone, the skin once again unblemished, and Lilith laughs softly, seeming delighted.

She releases Edward, letting him fall forward onto the ground.

Isa's heart is racing but the queen seems uninterested in killing either of them. Instead, another titanium vial is thrown at her feet, into Edward's hands.

"Try harder, Acolyte."


	31. Time, I

Edward's hand curls around the vial and he looks up at her, determination in his eyes.

"D-d-dr..."

Lilith has punctured his lungs and he can't draw enough breath to give the order.

Isa looks at the gleaming surface of the vial and then at Lilith, who is reclining on her throne, caressing the weakened Original beside her, prying his lips apart before opening the vein at her wrist, letting a slow trickle of blood fall.

Blood.

Vampires don't bleed.

From the shadows, Marcus's scarlet eyes are burning. The way he's standing behind the queen, the way they're gazing at her, unblinking and expectant... They've thrown down the gauntlet and they're waiting for her to pick it up.

They're tempting her with freedom.

Isa lowers herself, reaching for her Guide, taking him gently into her arms. The vial is still held in his hand, his chest heaving with the effort of trying to speak. There's nothing— _nothing_ holding her back from seizing what's hers. The utter calm radiating from the Originals is unusual and Isa feels it in her bones; they won't harm her if she leaves now.

Freedom is so close she can almost taste it.

A cool breeze and then the fresh smell of grass drifts in through the heavy doors of the main hall. Beyond them are no longer white walls but lush greens, a beautiful, untouched meadow strewn with flowers and the peaceful sound of birds.

"D-d-dr..."

Isa looks down. He's still trying to help her. Trying to tell her to take her freedom.

But taking her freedom would mean leaving him behind. Going beyond would mean never seeing him again.

And why not?

He's nothing to her—a stranger she'd been instructed to fetch, a stranger she'd fucked, a stranger who'd shown her a little humanity that, once upon a time, would've been nothing special. It's laughable how much her expectations have fallen.

She's suffered enough and he's nothing to her.

Only, she knows this isn't about him. It's about her. Even if she resumes her human form, there's very little left of her that's human. And leaving him behind would mean destroying most of what's left of it—and what would freedom mean then? How could she live with herself, trapped in a body that no longer befits her mind, walking among others who look like her but whose minds are completely alien to hers?

Isa meets Lilith's scrutinising, stone-cold eyes fearlessly for the first time.

Humanity is no longer meant for her, not after everything she's been through.

Her blood sketch in the time void—she'd understood it wrongly the first few times. Her gift is not static as she'd believed; after all, she'd drawn herself lifeless, with crescent marks on her skin. An Acolyte would not die from injuries so simple. No, her sketch possessed a greater meaning. Her gift had shown her what she'd refused to see; resuming her humanity in this ruined world would ultimately result in a grisly end. Her drawing didn't show her fate—it was a warning.

Isa rises with her Guide in her arms and steps back until she's standing in the meadow, the grass tickling her bare feet as she looks back at the Originals. Aro is stirring, his lips beginning to latch onto Lilith's bleeding wrist.

The queen's eyes have never left Isa's own and the longer Isa looks at the redness of her blood, the more frail the queen seems, her glamour fading. Dark hair is now snow white, taut skin sagging and wrinkled. She hears a faint thudding in the background.

A heartbeat.

How could she have missed it? The thrum had always been there, matching the exact rhythm of her own beat for beat.

Isa eases the vial from her Guide's hand and then, in a flare of anger, she throws it as hard as she can towards the ancient, dying queen, all her hate packed into the airborne titanium. Only, the scene blurs and the main hall fades. The vial whistles, disappearing between long grasses miles away.

They're standing in the forest alone, the quiet sound water rushing in the distance.

"I...I-I-sa."

Edward is clutching his heart, looking at her with concern. After everything, his first concern is still her.

Her vision blurs with unshed tears.

How did she see evil where there was none? How could she have thought of abandoning him?

"I'm sorry," she says, laying him gently on the soft ground.

As she lets him feed to heal himself, her mind is focused, more so than before. Her purpose is clear once again and this time, her doubts have been swept away.

If Lilith bleeds, it means Edward's freedom, like Mike's, is possible. Keeping him alive is no longer the main objective.

She will free him.


	32. Time, II

The warmth of cheek rests against his chest as he threads his fingers through her hair, tracing the curve of her skull, feeling her pulse throbbing under his fingers.

She hasn't spoken much since she'd carried him here and, despite his burning questions, he can't bring himself to interrupt their peaceful respite. If he inhales deeply enough, he knows that he will scent the tang of titanium.

The vial will not be difficult to find.

But after her extraordinary display of gentleness in tending to him, his will wavers once more. The fondness he feels for her eats at him from the inside, its vastness and intensity very close to the tenderness between mated pairs.

Edward isn't afraid to love. But he is afraid that Isa is right; if their attachment for one another is indeed engineered by the Originals to suit their selfish purpose, he fears that his emotions will cloud his vision of right and wrong.

Her skin feels hot against his, her thumb beginning to draw slow circles on his palm.

The sensation tingles, softening more of his heart, and he can no longer deny it. He loves her. And unlike her, he doesn't believe that the feelings are cheapened by their circumstances. Where the feelings originate matters less to him than where they would lead to.

"Isa."

His thumb moves across her lips and she kisses it, her heartbeat quickening.

"I'm going to help you, Edward," she says. "I'm going to stay."

He doesn't answer immediately.

In the distance, a nightingale begins its song.

There's something about this meadow that suggests design. It's rich with life, a yet untouched place, rare on their otherwise decaying earth.

It's enchanting, yet haunting, and drawn tightly with purpose.

Their peace will not last—he knows it. She does too.

Before they are interrupted, he puts a finger under her jaw, tipping her face gently up to him. "What do you speak of, Isa? Do you know how many times you've told me this only to regret it? You're unhappy here."

The moon peeks at them from behind the clouds, lighting up her wan face, her dress, torn and stained once more. As much as he loves her, she doesn't belong with him. His embrace is a parody of a real lover's and she's bundled in his arms by circumstance, not choice.

"We've come full circle," he says, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. "I have to let you go."

She leans into his hand. "There's nothing left for me. I'm reaching for something that no longer exists. My scars run too deep and being human will only kill me."

"Staying will only extend your misery."

"No. I'm going to put an end to this." Her lips are a hard line, her gaze piercing.

"What do you mean?" He caresses her cheek.

"Do you know that your mighty queen bleeds, Edward?" she asks, tilting her head.

"She's the Original," Edward murmurs. "The source of our power. Naturally her physiology differs from other immortals."

"You're not immortal. Neither am I. Neither is Lilith," Isa says. "Because we all have the ability to die."

"You want to kill her?" Edward's tone is indulgent, almost patronising, and Isa draws away sharply.

"Don't mock me."

Edward follows her lead, rising. "You don't have a fraction of her might, Isa. You don't understand the extent of her power."

"I think I understand it better than you do."

"Just listen to yourself—..."

"I'm unstable, I agree," she says. "But I'm not blind. Lilith _can_ be killed."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"What if it's a lie?" Isa's gaze is penetrating. "Originals... what does that word mean? Vampires are made, not born."

"Isa..."

"Mike said they're hiding something from us. Something great." She begins to pace restlessly. "What do they want? Why the raids?"

Edward doesn't like the direction of the conversation and especially not in their current location.

"Have Acolytes always existed?" she demands. "Answer me."

"No." Edward's reply is reluctant. For her own good, he should silence her but the thoughts she's expressing are so similar to his own that they make him pause.

"Then why now? Dominion over the human race has been achieved long ago and yet the raids continue. Why—"

Edward grabs her wrist, his voice low. "You think you're the only one who's thought about this? You think you're the first to attempt murder on the queen? She hears us, even now. And—..."

She jerks away. "You think I'm afraid of death? Afraid of pain? There's nothing she can do to me that she hasn't already done."

"Are you sure about that?"

Both of them freeze.

Edward's entire being soars at the familiar voice.

Light as a ballerina, the female emerges, her jet-black hair shining in the moonlight, and her smile, although elated, is marred with exhaustion. Behind her, her scarred mate is less friendly, especially when his gaze finds Isa's.

"Alice..." Edward breathes, disbelieving, and she runs to him, letting him embrace her as she embraces him.

"I've missed you so much, Edward."

Words fail him.

Edward is completely overcome by the unexpected reunion and Isa feels like an intruder. She steps back quietly to give them privacy but finds her way obstructed by Alice's golden-eyed mate.

His unfriendly gaze hardens. Each recognises the other for what they really are—cold-blooded killers. The air crackles and cools between the two, their hostility curbed only by Edward and Alice's presence.

"You don't know how long I've waited for this moment," Alice whispers. "To find you safe."

"I never wanted you to see me like this..."

Jasper breaks their locked stares, pushing past Isa to grasp Edward on the shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous Edward," he says. "You did what you had to do in order to live, and no one, not even Carlisle would've judged you for this."

Edward's wine-coloured eyes are soft. "Thank you." He releases Alice and turns to Isa, who stays back. "Alice, Jasper, this is Isa. Isa, meet my family."

Family, he'd said. Not coven. Family.

Isa's facial muscles feel defective and a greeting feels contrived to her. The people who love Edward deserve more than counterfeit courtesy—the very thing she's forced to offer the Originals—and so she says nothing, hoping that her eventual actions would be proof enough of her loyalty.

Alice doesn't seem surprised by her lack of response.

"Are you going to help my brother?" she asks, her gaze unexpectedly earnest.

"I will," Isa promises.

Alice's smile is warm. "Thank you. His future seems inextricably linked with yours and I'm glad you care for him."

"You're clairvoyant," Isa says in wonder.

"Like you," Alice dares to step closer, her eyes protuberant.

"That gift is transitory," Isa demurs, but even as she does so, she finds herself taking an instant liking to the odd girl. "I'm more of a shield."

The moment Isa's fondness develops, Jasper relaxes visibly.

"That's probably more useful," Alice says. "The Originals movements are hidden from me. To find you, I've had to follow my blindspots. I've missed you twice—once on the train, once in the park."

"It's amazing that you found us at all."

"You've been here longer than the other two places," Alice says, taking Isa's hands, her eyes sparkling. "It was only a matter of running as fast as we could... right, Jasper?"

"Of course." One smile from Alice and the hardened male softens so quickly that it's a sight to behold. Love. Free and abundant. Isa feels a pang when she realises that such a condition would never be possible for her.

"I overheard your conversation," Alice says softly. "You haven't lost everything yet, Isabella. And you have so much to gain."

Isabella.

No one has called her that since she was human. But it feels fitting for Alice—a perfect balance between detachment and affection.

"We've met before," Isa admits.

Alice's smile is rueful. "We did. But we're not enemies now."

"I've never considered you an enemy," Isa says honestly. "My position is unique. I'm incapable of rebelling, no matter how much I despise the one I'm bound to."

"We know." It's Jasper who speaks. His coldness has vanished and he's extending the first tendril of trust.

"Thank you for doing what I couldn't," Isa tells him.

Jasper puts an arm around his mate, his smile grim. "James was an old enemy. Thank you for giving me a reason to end him."

A hand finds her own.

It's Edward and his expression is brighter, more filled with hope. "Alice has something to tell us."

The fortune teller smiles. "That's right. We're going to see Eleazar."


	33. Time, III

"Eleazar." Isa stiffens. "Mike mentioned he was involved with the Originals. Who is he?"

"I'm not sure," Alice confesses. "But it was him who helped me find you. Acolytes are typically beyond my visions."

"You've met him?" Isa asks sharply.

"Several times," Alice says brightly. She turns to Edward. "Do you know there are others who feed on animals? Eleazar says he was inspired by Carlisle."

Edward seems eager but Isa catches a hold of his arm.

"I refuse to meet with such a suspicious character."

Jasper raises an eyebrow. "He's one of the harmless Old Ones—..."

"The Old Ones are _not_ harmless," Isa insists.

"You have to meet him to understand," Alice says patiently. "He's very sweet and helpful."

"The Originals can be very sweet as well," Isa says sardonically, "So sweet you do not see the dagger until it's between your ribs."

"Isa," Edward puts an arm around her. "I trust Alice and Jasper. I've seen what the vampire is like in their memories."

"You've been blinded by your reunion," Isa refuses to back down. "This Eleazar—if what Alice says is true, then he has the ability to overcome Lilith's barriers. Do you understand what that means?"

But the way Edward is looking at her with sympathy, she knows that it's no use arguing. "He could have a gift for tracking. Isa, we both know you struggle with trust. But this is my family—"

"It's not your family I don't trust. It's _Eleazar_."

"I trust their judgment," Edward's words are steady. "I won't make you come with us but I'll go with them."

Isa clenches her fists. "I'm going wherever you're going."

Edward motions for Alice and Jasper to go ahead first. The two understand the subtle request for privacy, turning away and moving just enough that their brother and his Acolyte can catch up easily.

Edward looks at his Acolyte, at her easy poise, her sharp eyes and the newfound aura of restraint radiating from her being. He finds her tightly clenched fist, caressing it so that the tension leaves and her fingers uncurl.

"I know you find it hard to trust my family—"

"It's not your family—" Isa begins but Edward kisses her, draining away her anxiety with his lips until she's boneless in his arms. When he pulls back, her eyes have a faraway look in them, the hardness melted. He brushes away the stray strands of brown hair, mirroring her softly adoring expression.

"You've come such a long way," he murmurs, and she realises that he noticed and appreciated the semblance of calm she's tried to maintain in front of Alice and Jasper.

"Only for you," she says, looking up at him. If it had been anyone else, she wouldn't have cared for the danger. If he hadn't loved his family as much as he did, she'd have been coarser in her disagreement.

He kisses her again, briefly this time.

"You don't have to come."

She takes his face between both her hands, and her eyes are almost pitying. "You still don't realise my predicament, do you? I'm not your friend, Edward. I'm not your equal. I'm not my own person. My life depends on your survival."

"You survived the death of four other Guides," he reminds her.

"My survival was a fluke," she confides. "If I had not found a new Guide in time, if your siblings hadn't interfered—and _yes_ , they interfered, the reason, I suspect, that Lilith hates me so—I would've been an empty vessel. An Undesirable. And I would've died."

She slides her hands down to his shoulders. "In other words, by following your siblings, you're condemning me to follow. I advise against it."

Edward sighs. "I trust their judgment."

Isa lets her hands fall to her side, having expected his answer but unable to stop the sinking sensation in her chest. "Fine."

"It'll be all right, you'll see," he tells her, kissing the top of her head before he takes her hand and makes his way towards Alice and Jasper.

Isa follows, unwillingly at first, and then she speeds up, taking her position at his side, alert and uneasy.

Something about their surrounding seems familiar and goosebumps rise on her arms. The sound of rushing water, the familiar piscine smell and the trees, now less gnarled... Isa's hand tightens around Edward's.

"Edward, do you realise..." she croaks. "That meadow we were in..."

"...is an earlier version of the one we were once in?" he murmurs. "Where I, once maddened in a distant future, dragged you there?"

"Y-yes..."

Isa is starting to shake.

"You called it a time void yourself," Edward murmurs. "Time loops and warps into itself in this place. The days are inconstant. One day can be the past or the present."

"And only in such a place can we find Eleazar," Alice says, looking back at her.

"I thought it was a fancy name... H-How did you get in? Only Acolytes can enter a time void—"

"Michael Newton," Jasper says. "The Acolyte you freed. We mentioned your name and he agreed to help us."

"But he's _human_ ," Isa says in disbelief.

"Not entirely," Jasper disagrees.

Isa doesn't understand her debilitating fear until she realises that she senses what the others don't. What only an Acolyte can. The presence of an Original, one even more ancient than Lilith herself.

"Welcome."


	34. Selection, I

"Welcome."

It's Eleazar and he seems as harmless as Jasper describes, a male with a good-natured smile and golden eyes that win him the trust of all in their company except the Acolyte who realises what he is.

When Eleazar smiles at her, she doesn't smile back. She only shifts her position so that she's standing between her Guide and the Original.

Except he doesn't attack Edward—his missiles of energy are aimed at Alice and Jasper instead. The nature of the attack is the same as the one Marcus had used on Jane—so fast that the victim doesn't realise the death sentence even when it's upon them.

Vivid in her mind's eye is Edward's grieving, empty expression.

To have his remaining family torn from him on the day of their reunion would break him. She doesn't pause to think before she rips herself from his side, so swift she must've been invisible to all except Eleazar.

She sees everything as though in slow motion.

The slightest wind blowing against Jasper's brows, the tiniest contraction on both their faces as they detect the change in the air currents, the onset of realisation too slow to save them.

She's never moved so fast in her life, never believed herself capable of it. Isa has barely enough time to shove them away from the trajectory of Eleazar's attack, now brushing against her own skin.

It doesn't ignite her flesh as she'd anticipated.

The wind roars, knocking into her with enough force to flatten the breath out of her body and make her stagger backwards a few steps but not send her flying. She teeters, catching her balance with an Acolyte's natural grace, and it's only then that anyone else realises something is wrong.

Amidst the horror-struck faces, Eleazar seems impressed. "Well done. You're more ready than I expected."

Isa whirls towards Alice and Jasper, no longer able bite back her anger. "You've doomed us all. He's one of the Originals, working with the likes of Lilith!"

"Oh no," Eleazar disagrees. "I don't work with them, I only advise them."

"I don't see the difference." She glares at him but he only chuckles, stepping forward until he's only two feet away from her. The sheer power of his being is enough to make her want to seize Edward and run without looking back but, as she knows, fleeing is no use. If he wants them dead, they'd be dead. So she stands her ground, meeting his eyes without flinching.

"Your temper reminds me of another," he says fondly. "She was quite a handful. It took a very long time before the channels opened. But once she allowed it, she was one of our best."

Isa doesn't appreciate his cryptic remarks. "I don't follow," she says brusquely. "And I'm not interested in your games."

Eleazar's golden eyes return to her, bright, as he offers a hand to help Alice up. "Life is a game, young one. And you are a player in one of the most decisive games of this epoch."

Before Isa could tell him exactly what she thinks of his senile babbling, Edward cuts in. "What kind of game?"

"A game that ends before it begins. A game that leaves no trace in the running of time. A game—..."

"I've had enough," Isa interjects loudly, taking her Guide's hand. "Either tell us what you want or let us go."

"You forget," Eleazar says, smiling. "It was you who came to me desiring answers. Was it not you who asked the purpose of Acolytes? Why they first appeared only when the dominion began, a hundred years ago?"

"Except this isn't our first appearance," Isa says shortly. "Is it?"

"Very sharp," Eleazar says approvingly. "Your kind have appeared at every selection. It is a cycle as old as time itself."

"That's not possible," Jasper says, frowning. "Acolytes didn't appear until a hundred years ago. Alice and I have travelled the far corners in search of answers and none of the Ancient Ones have heard of them."

Eleazar's expression is serene. "As I have said, it is a game that ends before it begins. A game that leaves no trace in the running of time. A game that, once won, resets itself."

Isa feels a dull pounding begin at the back of her head. "We came for answers, not for more questions."

"Patience," Eleazar says, holding his hands close together. "To understand the present, you must first understand the past." He opens his arms wide and sharp intakes of breath follow the sight that greets them.

Floating in the air between Eleazar's open arms is what seems like a droplet sealed within a shapeless substance. Within it is a nude female, motionless and lips pale, her eyes closed. If not for the loud, steady thudding of her heart, Isa would've thought her dead.

"This is my mate and my queen," he says, motioning at the slumbering girl. "She is Carmen now, she was Eve before. At an earlier time, she was Pandora. It does not matter. As time passes, our names, our identities cease to matter, only what we represent: Pandora, Lilith, Eve... they are interchangeable as we forget who was first, as the memories of each generation are replaced with the next."

Even as they look at her, her body changes, transforming from girl to an old woman before the view melds with one another and Isa is no longer sure what she's looking at.

Eleazar claps his hand together and the spectacle vanishes.

"She was the first Acolyte, wasn't she?" Isa says slowly. "Just like Lilith is."

"My Carmen was never an Acolyte," Eleazar says, protectiveness in his voice. "Just like Lilith is no longer one. Acolytes are beings of incomplete potential. Once the potential is reached, they become rulers. My Carmen was the first queen and Lilith successfully completed the cycle before yours to become our current ruler."

Isa stares at him, her lips slightly parted in shock.

Eleazar clasps his hands together. "Being queen is no easy task. The immense power takes its toll and after several millennia, the queen tires and wishes to die. The game, as you know it, is a search for the worthy."

* * *

_Pandora was believed to be the first woman in ancient Greece_

_Eve was believed to be the first woman in Hebrew tradition_

_Lilith was, in some mythologies, believed to be Adam's first wife before she was cast out as a demon_


	35. Selection, II

"The game, as you know it, is a search for the worthy."

The silence is so complete that their ears ring. Isa breaks it first, her expression incredulous.

"And in the last cycle, Lilith was declared _worthy_? She's raiding cities and burning our world to the ground!"

"Madness is an inevitability," Eleazar says calmly. "And the carnage is necessary. One must search for the hardiest of mind and body."

As the understanding sinks, Isa is stunned, her mind struggling to grasp the implication of his words. She doesn't realise she's shaking until Edward puts an arm around her, his touch steadying.

"And what about our choices?" he demands. "What about everyone you murdered?"

"As I have said, the carnage is necessary." Eleazar's tone is resolute, his expression unrepentant.

Isa finds her tongue, and with it, newfound determination. "And Edward? What is his role in all of this? If it's only me you want, then set him free."

Eleazar's expression softens. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Edward is essential for your complete alteration." His gaze move to her Guide. "The function of your role is found in its name. Your responsibility is to guide your Acolyte to her peak strength." His eyes are knowing. "You feel the calling, do you not?"

Edward doesn't answer but his arm tightens around Isa.

"All Guides feel it, but only a few will heed it. To utilise force and keep the strength for oneself is far more tempting. But Guides are not tested for strength—they are tested for loyalty and altruism. Power is readily available to them—what will they do with it?"

"You vile creature," Isa spits. "Playing with others like they're nothing but puppets—"

"It is how the selection works," Eleazar is unperturbed. "Your Guide is the channel through which your energy is supplied. He cannot be corrupt."

Edward squeezes Isa's shoulder, willing her into calm. "Why must there be a channel? Why tear families apart when you can select from existing vampires?"

"Vampires are far more powerful than humans. The queen ensures equilibrium between the two. For that, she must experience mortality. Her life will be anchored by yours, and if she wishes it, others of her choice. But the larger the number, the larger the risk of a rogue, as you have observed in Caius. Enough questions," Eleazar's voice becomes louder, more resonant. "I'm not here to satisfy your curiosity. I'm here because of your exceptional circumstances. You have both passed, however, you have yet to finish the task you were given."

"What task?" Edward asks flatly.

"Your Acolyte must drain the current queen and claim her position."

"You want me to end up like _her_?" Isa's expression is that of revulsion. "I'd rather die!"

"And that you will," Eleazar muses. "The prophecy can be fulfilled by any Acolyte-Guide pair who fits the conditions. If you do not, someone else will. When that happens, all other Acolytes will die."

"You would kill them all?" It shouldn't surprise her and yet the carelessness with which he proclaims it is outrageous.

"Not I, Bella," he uses her name for the first time. "It is as nature dictates it. It is to prevent anarchy, should another pair challenge the one currently in rule. When two beings of such great power clash, it will irreversibly change the world as we know it."

Isa flies at Eleazar, gripping his shirt, careless of the fact that he can kill her in an instant, perhaps even hoping that he will. "The world is already irreversibly altered," she croaks. "I don't want any of this—do you hear me? Return the century of my life that you've stolen. I want my family, my friends, my freedom back. Give them back!" She reaches out to scratch his face but he's vanished. A voice reaches her telepathically. _You will never have them back. But if you claim your position, there is a way for you to give your Guide what he desires._

Something cold presses into her palm.

Where she'd been gripping his shirt, she's now gripping the fallen vial.


	36. Selection, III

The vial feels cool under her palm and Eleazar's words continue to ring in her ears. _Free yourself. Drain the queen. Rise, awaken and rule._

Around her, the wind still roars, tugging wildly at her hair and she hears Edward calling out from a distance. She can't make out his words but she knows what he will do. Before anyone can reach her, she twists the vial open and forces herself to swallow every drop. The venom is so sweet it turns her stomach, its aftertaste so bitter that she almost gags. Almost.

It is Edward's doing that she's stronger than Mike. Instead of expunging the obscenely rich liquid, her body begins the excruciating task of absorbing it. Already, she feels herself changing—her strength growing, snapping the steel threads anchoring her to obedience one by one.

Each severance cuts the raw nerves in her psyche, dragging her down in a spiral of agony until her mind drowns in the sensation.

She's free, she's in pain, and she hasn't forgotten what she intends to do.

"Isa!"

Her jumbled vision sees two of him running towards her, his outline blurred, but she doesn't want his help. If he touches her, she might not be strong enough to do what she must.

Despite the pain, her dormant strength has been freed and is within her grasp. She wraps the energy around herself, twisting with the tornado to disappear from the time void and into Volterra.

The stark white walls have always given her claustrophobia, the strength radiating from Lilith's mind fearsome. Now, they feel so fragile, fading and yielding at her slightest beckoning.

_Marcus._

She feels the low tenor of his presence reverberating more strongly in response.

A sharp, stinging pain runs from her spine to her brain, paralysing her momentarily. Her transformation is incomplete, her body still absorbing the chemicals.

She doesn't have the luxury of displaying weakness. Drawing upon the century of experience she's had in concealing pain, she straightens her back, squares her shoulders and strides decisively through the curtain of gleaming beads, parting them with her mind, hearing the noisy rattle as the little balls knock into one another, announcing her presence.

She hears his breathing long before she sees his tall figure, his hands resting on the intricate parapet of the arched balcony.

"So you know."

Lilith's first Guide doesn't turn, his back and his neck vulnerable and exposed to her.

"I'm not here to kill you, Marcus."

He turns abruptly, his gaze impassive, waiting for her to state her purpose.

The pain chooses at that moment to sear, burning through her muscles, and it's only by will that she catches herself, hiding the agony and raising her chin. "I want to know if you're willing to take Edward's place as my Guide."

Her request is met with silence.

She knows she's capable of plucking the answer from his mind. But the male has saved her life more than once. And unlike the others, he has never harmed her. It was how she knew, the moment Eleazar revealed the truth, that Marcus is Lilith's original Guide. Not the apparent favourite Aro, but Marcus.

Isa steps forward, letting her fingers trail delicately along the railings. "What's wrong? Isn't this the very reason you've been courting me?"

Unexpectedly, Marcus's eyes flash. "Don't flatter yourself."

She doesn't take offense. "How else should I interpret your signals?"

Marcus's expression is cold.

"As an indication that you should finish your task with utmost haste."

"Do you have so little loyalty for Lilith that you want her dead so quickly?" Isa asks, disdainful.

"My loyalty, once given, is absolute," Marcus replies, his voice soft. "It always has been and will continue to remain so."

A flurry of images is offered up to her—memories—and she accepts.

They're human memories, the details not as sharp, the edges blurry.

Isa sees the profile of a young woman with dark hair and a gentle smile, humming to herself as she rocks a sleeping child in her arms.

" _Didyme!_ "

The peace is shattered in that one moment, darkness prevailing as the memories in-between are hidden from her, the only other thing she experiences being the warm, sticky sensation of blood and grief.

The colours meld into one another, forming a new image.

It's Lilith, her power newly acquired, perched gracefully on the high walls of Volterra—previously midnight blue instead of white.

"I can return what you've lost, Marcus," she says. "But only after my reign. I don't trust anyone but you."

The titanium vial in her hand rolls down the roof, clattering as it hits the tiles before whistling downwards into the wet, muddy ground.

"Will you do me this last favour? Stay with me until the end of the cycle. I'll leave you be and feed from another."

Marcus sighs but acquiesces. "Very well. One cycle, that's as long as I can wait."

"I'll find a replacement earlier. I'll raze everything to the ground. Perhaps then they'll see what has become of their _prophecy_."

"Such madness is unbecoming of you," Marcus says, disapproving.

"What does it matter, if everything ends before it begins? If—"

The memories are retracted.

Isa returns to her sore corporeal body in Volterra and Marcus is leaning back against the parapet, the breeze tugging his hair and rattling the beaded curtains.

"I take it you know my answer."

Lilith's venom is fire, eating through Isa's heart and she folds her arms, resisting. "You helped me because you wanted me to end the reign. You used me."

"I merely hastened the process," Marcus says calmly. "If not you, then someone else. If not her, then someone else. Someone must—"

"There's no need to say anymore. I understand your point." Isa truly does. By chance or by purpose, she's the next sacrificial lamb to be paraded around as the figurehead they call queen—there's nothing she can do about it.

But she _can_ do something for Edward and she's determined not to let him share her fate.


	37. Loop, I

"So Lilith promised to return your family to you," Isa states. "It's the reason you stayed—"

"I chose to stay." Marcus's declaration is firm.

"You love Lilith?"

"I love her as I would my own blood," he says. "I stayed because she needed me. Woe to the queen with an unruly Guide."

"Are queens still burdened by such cumbersome things?" Isa arches a brow.

Marcus inclines his head. "You may be more powerful—enough to punish Guides who are disloyal. But you are connected. His pain is your pain, your pain is his pain. Killing a Guide—your channel—ruins your power."

"And freeing him—..."

"Requires the complete relinquishment of your power." Marcus's gaze is piercing.

"I accept," Isa says without hesitation.

"Dying before the end of your cycle would mean the destruction of your soul. Many will try to kill you once you are queen."

"At least my death would end this farce!"

Marcus's expression is pitying. "What makes you think so? The splitting of your soul has a purpose in itself—to forcefully rip another to take your place in the event of your untimely death."

Isa's curls her hands into fists to hide their trembling. "I can force your hand, Marcus. I can bend you to my will."

"You will do no such thing."

It's Lilith, her image distorting, stepping in front of Marcus.

It's the first time Isa has seen her be anything but stone-cold.

Her glamour flickers, and her body transitions back and forth from young to old, old to young, and back again.

She's a crippled old woman with wild hair, gnarled fingers and a creased face, moving only by her weakening telekinesis.

"You can't protect him from me," Isa says, closing her fist. The beads behind her snap from their threads and burst violently, tiny shards of glass cutting clean through the several fragile layers of walls made from the queen's mind.

Lilith only grins, flashing startling rows of sharp, white teeth. She curls a bone-thin arm around Marcus's neck, her paper lips brushing affectionately against his cheek, and then, in a movement that seems oddly gentle, she kills him.

The ashes of his body drift with the wind, scattering over the terraces. Lilith's power dims further. She no longer glides but supports herself feebly against the railings.

"It's just you and me now," she breathes, gripping the metal. "Just me... and... you."

Isa was wrong.

Lilith's power isn't dimming—it's gone.

"You've killed Aro too," she realises.

Lilith steadies herself, her faded blue eyes piercing. "A clean break from the past," she licks her lips. "All fresh, just for you."

"You promised to free them and to return what they had!"

"I did and I will." The insane queen cackles with laughter that blends with hacking coughs.

Isa stares with utter disgust until Lilith looks up. Those worn blue eyes—they're sharp, cognizant, daring her to take the last step.

_Drain the queen._

Isa closes the distance between them, studying the powerless creature before her. Killing her would be easy. Too easy.

"You want this to end." It isn't a question and Lilith doesn't answer. Isa has felt so much hatred that now she feels empty of it. Her emotions have been swept away by the vastness of the circumstance—feathers in the wind. "I'll end this for you if you tell me how to free my Guide."

Lilith raises a crooked finger, beckoning her closer. Her lips move, whispering words whose meaning are quickly grasped and just as quickly lost.

She's useless now.

Isa reaches out and drains the essence from her body until she's nothing but a husk. They crumble under her touch, disintegrating with the rest of the stark white walls.

The surroundings fade away, the time voids released, and the vast deserts that have become their world dissolve, replaced by rich soil and the smell of grass. Dark skies lighten to a clear blue and Isa finally understands Eleazar's meaning.

_A game that ends before it begins._

_A game that leaves no trace in the running of time._

_A game that, once won, resets itself._

The queen exists throughout eternity. Pandora, Eve, Lilith... The many names are interchangeable because each had replaced the other in all the timelines. The selection itself with the Acolytes is erased, time transitioning smoothly from one ascension to another. To everyone else, the old queen never existed.


	38. Loop, II

Isa walks through the streets, watching people go about their business as though nothing has happened. She would've felt dazed, except her mind is too lucid, her senses sharp to the point of discomfort.

She's aware of every blink, every rustle...

Amidst the sea of people, she feels adrift and detached. She's not one of them and, unconsciously, they know. The humans instinctively shy away from contact and a small gap forms around Isa in the moving crowd.

Still, anomalies exist.

Someone bumps into her and an apple falls, rolling to the ground.

Isa bends down and picks it up. The lady smiles at her, a sleeping infant draped over one shoulder. "Thank you."

Isa stares. It's the same young woman from Marcus's memories. The woman's eyes widen as they slide down Isa's clothing.

"Didyme!"

The voice is familiar and Isa freezes as she sees a very human Marcus hurrying towards them in jeans and a T-shirt.

"Everything all right?" he asks, taking the grocery bag from her arm.

"Oh yes," Didyme says, not taking her eyes off Isa. "Clumsy old me bumping into this young lady over here." She reaches out and touches Isa's shoulder. "My dear, are you all right?"

Marcus looks at Isa and her heart nearly stops—except there is no recognition in his eyes. Concern colours his expression. "Do you need any help?"

Isa follows their gaze and realises that she's still barefoot, wearing the same torn, bloodied dress from Volterra.

"Do you think we should call the police, Marcus?" Didyme murmurs, placing a slender hand on his arm.

Marcus turns his attention to Didyme, ready to affirm her suggestion. But when he looks up, just a second later, the girl has vanished.

-xx-x-xx-

From high above, Isa watches the couple search for her, watches them give up and make a brief call to the police.

_A game that leaves no trace in the running of time._

Her existence, like every queen's, has been erased from this timeline. Even if they had her full name, the police would never find _Isabella Marie Swan_ in their records.

Didyme casts one last worried glance around the square and Marcus puts an arm around her shoulders. The couple finally disappears through the crowd.

Isa traces the window pane, feeling oddly numb. Her breath mists against the glass—a sign that she's real—and then even that, too, vanishes.

"Goodbye."

She touches the sheer silk of her dress. The thrum of power pulses underneath her skin, surfacing at the slight whim. The torn dress transforms into a floral shirt, leggings and ballet flats—the same outfit she'd been wearing on the eve of her birthday.

She smooths down the fabric, lets down her hair and steps out into the sun.

Today, just today, she'll be seventeen again.

-xx-x-xx-

With her strength carefully glamoured, she blends in more easily. A breeze sweeps her brown hair and she strolls into an ice-cream parlour, contemplating the various colourful flavours until a dog begins to bark loudly and aggressively.

She turns and its teeth are bared at her, hairs raised, still barking as a boy restrains it. "Down, boy! Sit! _Sit!_ "

Isa stops staring at the dog and stares at the boy instead. It's Jake. He pulls at its leash with some difficulty before a girl—Leah—takes over and guides the dog out the of the parlour. "I'll take him home, gotta go pick up Seth anyway," she calls out over the loud barking.

Jake stares after Leah's dog in puzzlement. "Sorry about that," he apologises to Isa, rubbing his neck. "He's usually very well-behaved, don't know what got into him."

That dog knew better than most of the humans. "It's okay," she says.

"I'll get you some ice-cream to make up for it," he offers. Before she can refuse, he's already pushing a cone of chocolate and vanilla into her hand. "I'm Jake, by the way."

 _I know._ "Thanks, Jake." She smiles at him, unable to help herself from holding onto the foolish sliver of hope that he might remember. After all, once upon a time, he'd loved her as much as she loved him.

But his expression, though warm as ever, remains clueless.

She swallows the sudden surge of frustration and reminds herself it isn't his fault. There's a short pause as she considers giving him her old name. But hearing him use it with the inflexions of a stranger... she'd rather not.

"I'm Isa," she offers instead. "Are you doing anything?"

His eyes light up. "Do you want to grab a cup of coffee sometime?" He begins to pull out his phone but she holds up a hand.

"No, not sometime." She smiles faintly. "Now."

He checks his watch, drumming his fingers anxiously on his lap. "I have to go back to my dad's shop and fix some—..."

"I'd love to come."

A grin splits his face. "Really? It's kind of gross, you know, oil and dirt and all that stuff."

"All that stuff," she repeats, catching his infectious grin. "Show me your worst."

"You asked for it."

She gives the untouched ice-cream to a little child, who beams brightly, and hops onto the bike behind Jake. He gives her a helmet, revs the engine and they zoom down the road.

"The speed all right?" he shouts over the wind.

 _Faster_ , she wants to say but she doesn't want to turn him into human pretzel should they crash into a lamp post or a tree.

"It's perfect."

He's flashing her a grin from the side mirror when everything begins to spiral out of control.

The engines of a truck roar behind them.

Jake swerves prudently to the side but the truck only presses closer.

"What the actual fuck—…" Jake begins to swear and Isa sees the human driver slumped over the wheel, dead as a doorknob. Alarm bells begin to ring in her mind when she senses a strong vampiric presence.

Six of them, closing in from all directions.

Heart pounding, she grabs the handles and swerves off the main road into the fields, glamouring Jake's presence from the approaching vampires. Jake's eyes widen as she slams on the brakes and yanks him off the bike.

"What's going—…" he begins but she presses a hand against his forehead.

As his eyes roll back in his head, she berates herself for her stupidity. He no longer belongs in her world. Her selfishness has endangered his life.

The vampires are coming even closer.

She can teleport him home but what if they can follow her?

"I'll hold them back."

She nearly kills him in her fright.

"How long have you been following me?" she asks, torn between irritation and gratefulness as she meets his golden ones.

"Since Volterra collapsed and the time voids were released." Edward is unsmiling. "I thought you knew."

A muscle twitches in Isa's jaw as she realises that his thread has been thrumming in her subconscious, together with millions of others. "I'm overwhelmed."

"You're new," he corrects. "I'm here to help."

"Edward—…"

"Take care of him and come back. Go," he urges.

"I…" she hesitates. "Thank you, Edward."

His small smile is the last thing she sees as the surroundings blur and she takes the sleeping Jake home.


	39. Loop, III

She lays Jake gently onto the bed, quietly placing his bike in the garage with her mind and returns as fast as she can.

It has taken her exactly two and a half seconds but the attackers are already dead, glowing cinders smouldering in the earth. Edward is standing in the midst of the embers, unmarked save for the smudges of black on his skin.

"You killed them?" Isa blinks.

Edward steps forward, his mind shielded from her, their connection blocked. His expression is gentle as he takes her hand and lovingly intertwines their fingers.

"Of course I did."

He caresses her palm, unnaturally calm.

Isa gazes at him, unsettled. "What did they want?"

"Does it matter?" he murmurs in her ear. "They're dead. I will eliminate anyone who tries to harm you."

The person before her—he's not the Edward she's come to know. She pulls her hand back sharply. "Who are you?"

Hurt flits across his lovely golden eyes and then the storm of emotion calms, becoming placid once more. "I'll be whoever you need me to be, Isa."

He reaches out to touch her face and she steps away. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," he says peaceably. "I was free to find you when the time voids were released and so—…"

His answers are empty, his mind still hidden from her and Isa doesn't believe a word he says.

" _What happened to you_?" she repeats.

He closes his eyes, exhaling, and when he opens them again, they're full of sorrow. "When you ran from me, I thought I'd never see you again." He closes the distance between them once more and this time she lets him touch her, lets him put his arms around her and embrace her tightly. "I've been a poor companion. I've been inattentive to your needs. I'll do better so please, promise never to run again."

Their connection clears for a brief moment and she feels him aching.

She's at a loss. He thinks she ran because he wasn't good enough. He blames himself.

"Edward—.."

"You're safe with me," he says. "I'll take care of you. There's no more need to worry."

"Edward, it's not what you think."

"Isn't it? I heard you ask him."

Her blood runs cold. "Ask who?"

He cradles her face between his hands, his eyes tender. "You know who I mean. It doesn't matter. I'm here now and I'll make sure you never worry again."

"Edward," she sighs, as his fingers caress her scalp. "I'm sorry for what I put you through. But you've misunderstood—"

"You don't have to explain yourself," he says, holding her tighter. "Not to me."

There's so much comfort in his touch, so much unconditional acceptance… with him, she finally feels strong enough to be weak. She buries her cheek in the crook of his neck. "I just… everyone who's ever loved me… They don't know I exist."

A heartbeat of silence and then he speaks, his voice rough. " _I_ love you."

She softens in his arms, the way she always had, warmth curling in her shattered heart. She's long known that she's not loveable and yet here he is, claiming the impossible.

"In what way do you mean that?" Her words are weak.

"It means," he brushes her hair back from her face, "I'll stay with you for as long as you want me."

The offer is so tempting and in a moment of weakness, her true feelings surface. "I'll always want you."

His thumb brushes away the ridiculous wetness making its way down her face and he gazes into her eyes. "But you won't keep me."

She's forgotten how perceptive he can be. She slides her hand slowly over his, memorising the feel of his skin before turning her cheek to kiss it. "You're not mine to keep."

She expects him to argue, to coax, maybe even to rage, but he remains silent, his irises honey-coloured and beautiful and their depths hidden from her.

"That boy," he says finally. "Are you going to take him as…?"

"No." Isa's answer is instant. "I would never do that to Jake."

"Then what will you do?"

His grip on her shoulder is almost painful but he's not fighting her will.

She licks her lips and changes the subject. "Don't you miss your family?"

He traces her bottom lip. "Of course I do," he says softly. "But Isa... Bella. Above all else, I love you."

His eyes are devoted, his touch affectionate. With every fibre of his being, he means it.

More salty droplets trickle down her skin. He's making it so hard.

"I love you," he says again, his touch gentle, unrestrictive. Any moment, she can walk away and she knows he will honour her choice.

She clutches his arms, torn. The absolute nature of the love he's offering eats at her, little by little until her will deserts her completely. She sags against him, helpless against his onslaught.

"I love you too." The confession is softer than a breath but it's enough.

"I'll be here for as long as you want me, Isa," he repeats, stroking her hair. "I'm right here."

His body feels solid and real, and for now, Isa allows herself this moment of weakness, comforting herself with the knowledge that it will hurt no one else but her when it ends.


	40. Pithos of Seven Sins

As always, their peace doesn't last long. The immense amount of information flooding through Isa's senses overwhelms her, its sheer mass slowly eroding her mind.

Beside her, Edward stiffens as he senses her discomfort through their connection.

"We should go." His voice echoes. "You need to build your home, my love." As he speaks, his face begins to seem more and more foreign to her despite the familiarity of his features. Just like that, she's beginning to lose pieces of herself, her own memories blurred and washed away by the tide of other images.

If she isn't careful, she's going to hurt him.

"Edward, I don't think you should—"

But his arms are already tightening around her, lifting her, bringing her far away from the noise of civilisation. It doesn't help. They're still there as vividly as though each of them is whispering in her ear. If she wants to, she can reach out and pluck them from their existence, kill them, and end the preposterous noise.

As Edward runs with her, jagged lines form in her mind, a burst of power wrapping around them as her mind attempts to protect itself, the energy bright but soft as petals. She would've been afraid, only he's still there, unharmed, his body solid and real against hers.

The layers expand and thicken until the noise dulls and dies away. When she opens her eyes, she realises that her mind has created the same walls of energy present in the old Volterra. Only this time, the walls are rose red, the corridors still empty.

As Isa lies in its heart, deathly still in Edward's embrace, others become aware of her awakening.

-xx-x-xx-

Around the world, vampires pause mid-hunt, distracted, as they feel the presence strengthen, massive in its power. No one has glimpsed the queen, not in this timeline.

They only sense the unfolding of energy as their centre takes form, a summon to pay homage. And they come, one after another, leaving gifts bearing their names.

The gifts remain untouched, the red walls doorless, the silence within seemingly absolute. A week passes and no one has seen hide nor hair of the fabled queen. Some wonder if the gifts have displeased her, others wonder if she's dead.

Unbeknownst to them, the queen lies curled in her bed, unkempt like a common beggar, consuming pints and pints of alcohol to numb her mind. She doesn't want to think, she doesn't want to face this horrible new reality and she doesn't want to make the decisions that she knows she will have to.

But the alcohol has no effect. She doesn't know why she's drinking it, not really. Maybe it's just so that her hands and mouth have something to do so she doesn't start destroying or screaming.

When she'd awoken in this seemingly idyllic dream, she'd believed that she'd been, at the very least, free. Her loved ones may have forgotten her, but she'd believed that she could still see them, speak to them, that she could mingle amidst the humans and pretend to be normal when she wished.

But after the incident with Jake, she knows that even this triviality is impossible. There are those who want her dead. Who or why, she can't bring herself to care—not now.

Without the walls protecting her mind, insanity will come for her sooner. But even within the walls, she feels it creeping up on her, the claustrophobic silence and the stifling sterility slowly driving her over the edge.

What will she do when she frees Edward? What will she do if she doesn't?

The more time passes, the deeper she sinks into the despair.

"Isa…"

His voice jerks her out of the numbness. The crystals around them shatter, sending shards flying, liquid spilling and she covers her face with her hands.

"You need to feed," he coaxes, taking her in his arms. "And no more of this poison." He eases the glass from her hands and she sees herself reflected in his gold irises—her eyes clear, no different than she was before consuming it. _I keep hoping the next glass will kill me._ She doesn't say it, knowing it'll upset him.

As queen, she's nothing but a prisoner in a larger cage.

He offers her a wrist and she only kisses it, inhaling his scent. She pushes him down onto the downy mattress and kisses him. He tastes the bitterness of alcohol on her lips. The thought passes unfiltered through their connection—his guard swayed by her sudden desire for intimacy—and she pulls away.

He catches her arm, tucking her back under his arm and she doesn't fight him, lying limply on his shoulder. He gazes at her, concerned by her growing apathy.

"Isa," he croons once more, kissing up her neck to her cheek, but when he reaches her lips, her hands find his face—gentle but restraining.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asks.

He doesn't need the connection to know what she means."I will always mean it," he says softly. "I love you. And I'll be with you as long as you want me."

Her guard falters and the vulnerability trembles through their connection.

How can he love someone like her?

"How can I not?" He kisses her forehead and she raises the walls around her mind, shutting him out the same way he has shut her out since murdering the six vampires.

He doesn't comment, he only holds her more tightly, lips brushing against her skin, and she feels his love and assurance radiating through their connection.

As mad as it is, his confession rings true and she doesn't want to steal his choice—however horrible she finds it—from him.

Still.

She traces his jaw, studying his elegant features. By the end of this cycle, he won't remember her. Like Lilith, there will be no trace of her—not a memory, not a single footprint. She'd have made no mark on the world itself.

Slowly, she begins to understand why Lilith had done what she did. _I'll raze everything to the ground. Perhaps then they'll see what has become of their prophecy._

But razing the world had made no difference in the end. Lilith had served her purpose and then, like all the others before her, her life been cast away.

Still deep in thought, Isa gives Edward a quick peck on the lips and rises, clearing the spilt liquid with her mind, ridding the room of the stink of alcohol. Now that she's mourned enough, her mind is doing what it does best—searching for a way out of the impossible.

She'd managed it before when she was an Acolyte. That was a game and this one was too, she was sure of it. Perhaps one she was not meant to play, but a game nonetheless.

She turns to look at Edward, whose eyes brighten at the return of her energy. If she wants to keep him, one cycle isn't enough. She wants a full life with him in the real world. Not this.

What is her purpose, truly?

 _The queen ensures equilibrium between the two_ , Eleazar had said. Equilibrium between humans and vampires. If one no longer exists…

Isa runs a fingernail over her wrist, watching as both blood and venom trickle out from underneath her skin. She's an unnatural being—neither human nor vampire—existing for the sole purpose of maintaining equilibrium by her own existence but how?

"Who were the six and what did they want?"

The brightness in Edward's golden eyes fades away, his mind as impassable as ever.

No one should recognise her in this timeline. Everything has been erased. Even if they should want to kill her, it made no sense for someone to recognise her when she's glamouring herself. Unless…

"Edward, look at me."

Her voice is soft but it's an order. It's not binding like a Guide's words are to an Acolyte, but it's not the way one lover would speak to another.

When he hesitates, she advances, putting a hand under his chin, and gently she tilts his face upwards to her.

His eyes are wilfully impassive but it isn't what's bothering her. She traces one eyelid and he remains still, closing the golden eye and letting her do as she pleases.

She traces the eyelid again. "Your eyes," she says, coming closer. "They were red the last time I saw you."

"You weren't there," he murmurs. "So I fed on animals."

"Is that all?" she asks, drawing back. "The colour shouldn't be so clear. Orange, perhaps. But not gold this pure."

What had happened in the time voids? He seems tight-lipped on the matter and so she changes her angle.

"Your family should be alive in this timeline," she says casually.

The tiniest flash of emotion flits across his eyes but it dies, snuffed before it has a chance to surface.

"They won't recognise me, will they?" he replies, his voice equally smooth. "Searching them out is meaningless and will only put them in danger."

She glides away from him, saying nothing for a long time as she reaches out to the world beyond and scans it. She repeats the search. Again. And again. But it's no use—in every corner she seeks, the familiar tenor of Alice and Jasper's presence are absent.

Something unpleasant curls in the base of her stomach and she meets Edward squarely in the eyes.

"That's assuming they're still alive."

He doesn't react.

Or more accurately, any emotion has been wiped clean, trapped within his frighteningly calm mask.

The dread and horror descend fully upon her now despite her outward composure. Six vampires… She does the count once again but there's no mistaking it.

"You killed them, didn't you?"

She expects a violent denial but he only bends down and begins to pick up the broken crystals one by one with his mind. His calm terrifies her far more than if he'd raged or cried.

It's as though she'd never spoken. The crystals float in the air before him, reassembling, cracks healing through his power and then he strides towards her, placing the decanter in her hands.

"This timeline doesn't matter," he says. "They know that. I know that. And our number is perfect." He reaches into his pockets, pulling out six beads. They're black and white, with swirls and dots and emitting a peculiar hum.

"Pride," he murmurs, singling out one bead, the prettiest. "Tempered by humility. My sister, Rosalie."

He drops it into the decanter.

"Envy, tempered by kindness. My mother, Esme, grieved for her child. She poured her heart to help children of others." The second bead joins the first.

"My brother Jasper struggled with bloodlust but chose our lifestyle nonetheless. Gluttony softened by temperance." The next bead falls.

"Alice, more than anyone in my family, should've been angry with her circumstances. Framed for her ability, forced into an institution for the remaining of her human life…" His expression softens as he held that bead. "Wrath tempered by patience." That, too, drops into the decanter.

"Emmett." Edward smiles. "My brother was as idle as idle came. I'm convinced it was the reason he got attacked by that bear. He never hesitated to help us. Sloth tempered by diligence." Another tinkle as that bead joined the rest.

Edward pauses slightly at the last bead. "Greed, tempered by charity. My father, Carlisle." He lets it fall.

The beads tinkle and clatter as they roll within the decanter and she hasn't stopped staring at Edward. Her hands are trembling. "What is this? What have you done?"

Edward puts his hand over hers, steadying them, and the decanter solidifies and hardens into an earthen pithos. His voice is in her ear. "I'm helping you put an end to the cycle. You must give back Pandora's box."

 

 

 

* * *

_Pithos: Greek earthenware, the type which Pandora's box was made of_

_I was also imagining the swirls and dots on the beads to be in a yin-yang pattern._

_I'm putting a bit of Greek mythology, the Christian idea of sin and Chinese philosophy into vampire myth, with the hopes of putting a spin on it. I hope it's not too weird, I'll gladly answer any questions and it should all come together in the end :)_

 


	41. Ichor of Elpis, I

"Are you asking me to kill you?"

Her hands are shaking so badly that the beads shiver and chime inside the pithos.

"Weren't you planning to free me?" he asks softly.

There are a million things she wants to tell him but her lips won't move.

He leans in, resting his head against her shoulder. "It's all right, Bella. I know you meant well." His grip over her hands tightens. "There's only one thing I need you to promise me."

_What is it?_

She can't speak but she can't block him either—not after knowing what he knows.

"When this is over, I want you to live. Not an imaginary existence, but a real one, with your family, your friends and your dreams. Will you do that for me?"

Her heart pounds. Not like this. Not when he—

"I've done my part," he says, his thumb caressing her pale, trembling knuckles. "I've done everything I could. The rest is in your hands."

She doesn't need the connection to understand his meaning. _To waste my sacrifice or to use it._

"Why?" The word is a whisper and her eyes are bone-dry from shock.

His hands move up to cup her face, his eyes tender. "Because, more than anything, I love you. Because I've done otherwise a thousand times and every time, I've witnessed the destruction of your soul. This is the only way."

This time her eyes do water. "So you want me to watch you die instead?"

"I want you to see me _free_."

It's too much. She begins to cry. He shushes her, taking the pithos and placing it aside.

"You said you'll stay with me as long as…as…"

"I will, my love. I will." He embraces her and begins to rock her back and forth like a child. The comfort is enormous, so much so that she can't bear to pull away like she should.

"Then why…?" She can't bring herself to look at him.

His arms tighten around her. "Because it's the only way to save you."

"I don't understand…" She grips his shirt. "Edward, I l-love you. I wanted to free you, but not like this. I know another way. I can do it another way..."

"I know." He kisses away her tears, nuzzling her neck. "You've done it before."

"What are you talking about?" She finally looks up at him, her eyelashes damp.

"The first cycle I stayed with you," he murmurs. "You relinquished everything to free me. It's why I can return."

Finally, he opens his connection and images from his mind flood her consciousness.

-xx-x-xx-

"I love you."

The voice is faint and the woman who says it is dying, her voice a series of raspy whispers.

"I've been too much of a coward to tell you. I don't… I don't need you to feel the same way. I just needed to tell you. I'm sorry I brought you to Volterra that day. I'm sorry for being awful and selfish—"

"Shh, Bella." At Edward's low plea, Isa realises with a shock that she's looking at herself. She's unrecognisable, almost a corpse with waxy skin and ugly, bony fingers, ones that he's so lovingly threading his own fingers through.

"Stay with me—" he begins to say but dark, jagged lines have formed across her body, tearing it apart and sucking the walls into its vortex. There's a horrible shrieking noise like fingernails on a chalkboard and then she's spared the nightmarish aftermath as Edward barricades the memory.

The world is desolate and dry once more, ruled by another queen, and he's stumbling towards something she can't see.

When his palms find the invisible force shield, she realises what it is. A time void.

"Please."

He's speaking to someone she can't see, begging and then threatening the Acolyte to bring him in.

-xx-x-xx-

The sun is shining and she sees herself laughing as she hugs Jake at the back of the motorcycle. The truck advances towards them and Jake swerves to the side. The driver is alive and remains in the middle.

Jake turns, ready to make a snarky comment, and he doesn't see the hole in the asphalt. The motorcycle flies out of control and slams into a lamp post, the momentum causing it to spin backwards and slide underneath the truck.

She sees through Edward's eyes as she reaches out and stops Jake's skull from being crushed underneath the massive wheels. Her glamour falls away and the horror of the situation causes her power to slip.

The truck engine explodes, killing Jake instantly. Again, Edward yanks the memory away before she can see Jake's corpse. She sees her own shell-shocked expression, blurred images in-between as the memories fast forward, and then he's looking at her shrivelled body again.

-xx-x-xx-

It's night this time and she's watching herself from high above, between rustling leaves and crackling branches.

"Well, I gotta go now," she hears her own voice echoing from Jake's shed. He calls out after her.

"Hey! The next bus is in an hour. Can I give you a ride?"

Edward's memory interprets her smile as perfunctory.

"It's all right," she declines. "I live pretty far away."

Memory Isa walks away quickly, pretending not to hear when he calls out again.

Unlike the blanket of complete darkness and the starry skies that they've become accustomed to during Lilith's reign, this night is different. Lamps light up the street and people roam the shaded corners—a different breed from those who roam in the day.

Someone whistles at memory Isa and she continues to walk, indifferent and seemingly aimless.

As she watches herself, she feels Edward's dread as she would her own—tightening at the base of his stomach.

Her waifish figure continues to wander the dark streets and into a darkened alleyway.

"Hey."

The voice is gruff and whoever it is stinks of cigarettes. An unkempt man is leering at her.

"No," Edward mutters under his breath. Through Edward's senses, she smells another man stinking of the same brand of cigarettes standing guard at the opposite corner, ready to catch her should she run. Edward stays where he is, not wanting to interrupt. They're humans—not a threat to her—but she's utterly apathetic as the man grabs her arm and rams her to the cold ground, his hand feeling up her shirt—

Edward is there in a flash and she sees blood.

-xx-x-xx-

Another memory. They're in a bright, airy house with Alice and the rest of Edward's family, discussing the situation.

Alice is laughing, animated, and Edward's adoptive father—Carlisle, is studying a worn book, a contemplative expression on his face as he gazes at an illustration of Pandora's pithos.

She sees herself sitting primly beside Esme, arms folded, nodding politely but seeming disengaged from the conversation.

 _Sadness_. _Yearning. Indecision._

Edward reads her emotions through Jasper.

And then it fasts forward again where she's on the ground, holding his hand.

-xx-x-xx-

Again and again. In every scenario, she dies, over and over again. And each time, she feels his grief and numbness.

Finally, she can take it no more. She withdraws, holding her head.

"How many cycles have you stayed with me?"

"One."

"You know what I mean!" Her voice is harsher than she intends and she bites her lip, forcing her emotions under control.

"I'm sorry. Please, Edward. _How many_?"

He remains silent for several long moments as he caresses her hair. Finally, he confesses.

"At least a thousand incomplete cycles."


	42. Ichor of Elpis, II

"At least a thousand incomplete cycles." His voice is so soft. "You never survive to the end, Bella. You always die." He kisses her again. "Finally, I realised there was no other way. I can't save you from yourself. But I can help you save yourself. To save me. You can spare me." His expression is pleading. "Because I will never give up on you. I will go back as many times as it takes to save you."

"How many times have you… _freed_ your family?"

He draws a breath. "This is the first time." She knows what he's asking her. _Don't make me do it again._

At least a thousand times of watching her die, a thousand times of seeking an alternative before he'd finally committed himself to doing the unthinkable. She can't begin to imagine the vastness of his desperation and despair.

"The seventh sin."

Slowly, she trails a finger down his shirt, feeling hard muscle underneath the nylon.

"Lust," he tells her, his hand cradling the back of her skull.

"Tempered by chastity," she finishes, looking at him with wide eyes. Had he been chaste, the day they—

"Traditionally," he murmurs. "I like to think that mine was tempered by love." He kisses her. "But yes, you were my first. And my last."

"But you didn't seem…"

"Inexperienced? Me, who sees the thoughts and memories of others?" His smile is almost playful as he catches her earlobe between his teeth, his tongue toying with the sensitive skin and making her shiver.

She pushes him down, stroking his cheek. "You never told me."

"I didn't think it was important."

Her chest squeezes together as she unbuttons his shirt. "Typical of you. Selfless as always."

He doesn't look at her. "I'm not as good as you think. If I were, I'd have ordered you to drink and none of this would've happened."

Her eyes fly to his face. "Edward..." She's dismayed as she rests both her hands on his cheeks, willing him to meet her gaze. "Not drinking the venom was _my_ fault. I was angry and confused and I took it out on you. I'm so sorry."

He stiffens. "Please. Don't apologise to me. I can't— every time you do, you—…" He can't say it and she kisses him, wanting nothing more than to take his burden away.

"Not this time. I promise you, I'll live." Her voice is quiet but resolute, and he finally lifts his eyes, covering her hand with his.

Her heart is bleeding but she won't put him through hell again. She'll give him what he needs. Determined, she numbs her thinking and goes through the motions, not allowing herself to turn back.

One pull from her mind and their clothes are shredded apart. She takes him into her hand, caressing him until he's hard and then she eases his length into her, finding a slow, indulgent rhythm that makes him sigh. The sight of his desire makes her heady. She quickens her pace, contracting her inner muscles rhythmically, all the while drinking his every reaction, her attention rapt on his pleasure.

He pulls her down onto him, crushing her body against his with desperation, instinctively understanding what she will do.

She doesn't stop the motion of her hips. When he shatters, she captures his lips, telling him how much she loves him, how she'll never forget him.

 _I'll always be with you_.

It's the last thing she hears before she ends his torment.

His last shuddering breath is that of pleasure, not pain, and she feels his gratitude echoing through their connection.

-xx-x-xx-

The last bead hums on her palm, still warm, and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. Her emotions are tearing her from the inside out but if she falls apart now, she'll never recover. So she observes her thoughts clinically, as though watching that of a stranger's.

She's killed her Guide—cut off her source. Power still thrums within her veins but it's draining quickly. She cannot mourn—she must act.

It's ironic that in freeing him, she's imprisoned him more thoroughly than she can imagine. As she gently releases the seventh bead into the pithos, she remembers the spirit with silver around her thighs—the one who'd once communed with Lilith.

Now that she has Pandora's box, she knows the spirit's identity.

"Elpis," she summons.

And the spirit of hope comes, this time instead of silver around her thighs, she wears a flowing dress, a bouquet of sweet smelling flowers cradled in her arms. The perfume diffuses across the room, petals scattering as Isa offers the pithos.

_Do you wish to return this?_

Elpis speaks without moving her lips.

"I do."

 _Great sacrifices have been made._ The spirit traces the pithos with her finger. _Are you certain you wish to restore humanity to its original state? This will mean the end of your kind. Creatures of the night will no longer plague humanity and you will wield no power._

The poignancy of Elpis's message is not lost on Isa and she wavers.

Sensing indecision, the spirit flickers, drawing back slightly. _It's not too late to take it all back._

It's the most painful decision Isa has made so far but she'd promised Edward his peace. "There's nothing more that I want."

"Very well, my child."

The pithos is taken from her arms and she feels lost without it. The stems of Elpis's flowers snake around Isa's arms, draining the venom from her body. She feels herself becoming weaker and weaker… and then nothing.

_-x-xx-The End of the Old World-xx-x-_

The beeping of a heart monitor is loud to her sensitised ears. Her head feels heavy but eventually, she manages to crack an eyelid open.

"Ms Swan? Can you hear me?"

The voice is familiar.

"Ms Swan? I'm going to be running some tests on you now that you're awake, all right? We think you might have had a stroke. It's unusual for someone your age but not impossible."

She can barely understand him. Lethargically, she raises her head to find the piercing blue eyes of…

"Carlisle?" she breathes.

The doctor's eyebrows rise marginally but he otherwise doesn't react. "I'm going to lift your left leg now, Ms Swan. Do you feel any pain?" He bends her knee slowly back and forth.

Why is he asking her such an odd question?

"Where's Edward?" she croaks.

Carlisle's eyes are questioning and then— "One moment, please. I'll fetch your mother."

"No, wait!" She panics irrationally and her hand flies out, grabbing his coat. "Stop! Where's Edward? Where's your son?"

Now that her arm is outstretched, she sees that there are several needles attached to her skin.

Carlisle pauses, obviously taken aback, but immediately collects himself. "I'm sorry Ms Swan, I don't have a son by that name. I understand it must be confusing for you—…"

"I'm not confused!" She can't believe what she's hearing. How can he deny the existence of his own son?

"I think you'll feel much better once I bring your mother here," he repeats patiently. "Do you mind…?" He glances at where she's still gripping his coat. His remarkable calm is catching and soon, she realises that she's acting completely out of line.

Slowly, she uncurls her fingers and lets him go.

"Are you… are you sure you don't have a son named Edward?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

At her expression of utter devastation, he hesitates, giving her a small smile. "At least, not to my knowledge."

When the little quip fails to cheer her up, he dips his head. "I'll call your mother."

-xx-x-xx-

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so glad you're okay."

Her mother's arms are warm around her and despite everything, Carlisle is right. She does feel better with her mum here. The image of her mother's lifeless body on the day of the raid returns to her and she hugs her tighter.

"What happened?"

Her mother pulls back, her face pale from worry. "We're not sure. You fainted during the birthday party. The doctors think you had a stroke but they didn't find any blockages and your blood pressure is fine."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two days, sweetie. That's why they hooked you up to the fluids. I'm so glad you're all right. Oh, Bella, I was so scared!" Her mother hugs her again and she exhales, still unable to come to terms with everything that had just happened.

"When can she go home, Dr Cullen?"

Carlisle approaches, calm as ever. "As soon as I run some tests to make sure she's all right, Mrs Swan."

She can't help herself from staring at the doctor.

Carlisle is kind, patient and tactfully doesn't ask her how she knows his first name. It's really him. Bella knows because she's been sneaking peeks at his nametag and then googling his details on her phone. _Dr Carlisle Cullen, M.D.— Neurologist_

So this is what Edward's father is like as a human.

In the end, they can find nothing wrong with her and she's discharged on the same day with a follow-up appointment. With her family and friends fussing around her, she feels more of her old self returning.

But she'll never be the same Bella again.

On the first day, the memory is so fresh that she doesn't question it. But as days turn into weeks, the last hundred years slowly begin to feel like nothing more than a dream.

She goes to school, watches her schoolmates gossip and complain about homework, and then she goes home.

Another day, another night.

She feels exhausted. Her phone vibrates and she stuffs it into a drawer when she sees Jake's number. She's been avoiding him since his last visit, making one stupid excuse after another, unable to muster the courage to break up with him despite knowing that she can never love him the same way again.

She falls onto her bed, burying her face into the pillow.

How can she live like this? She feels like she's losing her mind and her heart feels like it hasn't stopped bleeding.

Is this how Edward had felt every time he'd watched her die?

She misses him so much and yet she has nothing to remember him by. In this timeline, there's no trace of him at all, nothing except her flimsy memories.

Her heart constricts painfully, her grief too great for her body to properly express. When she raises her head, her pillow is damp.

"Come back, Edward," she whispers into the darkness.


	43. Ichor of Elpis, III

It's been another week.

A few days ago, she's finally gathered enough courage to break up with Jake. It had been uncomfortable for her and painful for Jake, who'd wanted no contact for the rest of their senior year. Feeling inwardly relieved, she'd agreed.

Overall, she's doing a little better. She's been forcing herself to focus and socialise despite the constant ache but it's been hard. Instead of just feeling lonely, she now feels anger too. Innocent highschoolers fretting about school, crushes and party invitations bear the brunt of her unjustified resentment. If only _her_ problems were that simple.

To her horror, she also finds her body preparing itself for violence at the smallest threat. On several occasions, she'd caught herself just in time, stopping short of maiming someone whose only crime was to look at her wrong.

Worried that she'll snap and actually hurt someone, she's taken to keeping to herself on the days that she's feeling particularly agitated.

Today is one of those days.

She's shuffling along the corridor, making her way to the lunchroom when she sees someone she recognises amidst the school corridor. While the others laugh and tease, the blond-haired boy is mostly quiet, seeming at times weary. When his friends are distracted, he ducks into the library.

Curious, she follows him as he wanders through the tables but he senses her instantly, turning. His eyes widen and he backs away so fast that he crashes into a bookshelf, tripping over his own feet.

A heavy volume topples off the ledge and she rushes forward, catching it before it knocks him in the head.

"Mike?" she says weakly.

He raises his hands defensively.

"What do you want?" His eyes follow her every move as though he's half-expecting her to attack him in a library full of people.

Heart racing, she puts the book back on the shelf. She can't believe he remembers.

"Nothing. I was just surprised to see you."

She holds out a hand to help him up and unsurprisingly, he doesn't take it.

"I just want to talk," she says pacifyingly, trying to make her gestures as non-threatening as she can. "Do you want to go to the cafeteria and grab something to eat?"

When he still doesn't move, she sighs. "I'm a student enrolled in this school. Really, it's over. I can't do anything to you."

She tils her head questioningly, her palm still outstretched and after a second, he takes it, letting her pull him up.

"God, have you always been this heavy?"

Her comment is meant to lighten the mood but he gives her a look. "Not in Volterra, no."

She remembers Jane and how she must have used to starve Mike and she feels foolish. They walk together in silence as she tries to find something sensible to say. "I'm sorry. You know, for whatever I did… back then."

"Yeah, I was no angel either."

As they take their trays and sit in a corner, someone sniggers behind them, students tittering and gossiping the way they always do. Neither of them cares. After everything they've been through, this is nothing.

"So you remember," she says, tearing off a piece of her bagel.

"I do." He pokes at the vegetables. "I reckon it was whatever you gave me."

The venom. Of course.

She nods as he swirls his vegetables around, not looking at her as he speaks. "I'm just waiting for it to end again."

"What?"

He gestures at the walls around him. "All of this. I never live more than two years before it restarts."

The bagel suddenly tastes like plastic in her mouth. "How many times?"

Mike shrugs, swallowing his food. "Must've been at least a thousand times. I know this school inside out." He nods at a girl in red. "She's going to spill her drink."

In a second, the girl gasps, her coke splashing all over her shirt.

" _That_ guy is going to offer her a napkin."

A guy in green pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, picking up the can for her.

"I know what everyone's going to say before they say it," he finally scoops up a cabbage. "Except you, of course. I've never seen you around here."

"It's my first time."

"Oh?" He spears a potato. "If you want I could show you how things work. I tried doing some crazy things the first few times it happened just to see how far I could go."

"Yeah? Like what?" She leans in interestedly. It's been so long since she's had a conversation where she's truly connected with someone.

Mike chuckles. "A lot of things." He finally meets her gaze. Something is different about his baby blue eyes. "I nearly had a kid once. The cycle ended before he was born. Another time, I ended up in juvie. I tried drugs, got shot, stitched it up with dental floss, slept on a park bench for months shaking from the withdrawal…" He mashed his potatoes against the bowl. "At some point, I realised how much it sucked. So for a while, I tried to be good." He smiles slightly.

"Did my homework, paid attention in class, all that crap. Becoming valedictorian shocked my entire family…" He chuckles. "It really helped knowing the exam questions. I won a chemistry prize, got into premed… even tried football like you mentioned. But always, before I could get any further it'll just start all over again. Sometimes, there were deserts and raids and I would hide…"

As she listens to him, her chest constricts. Edward had turned things back over and over again… all of it to save her. And while Mike had been living, Edward had not.

Mike gazes contemplatively at the mess on his tray and then looks at her. "What have you been up to?"

She chews the inside of her cheek, feeling suddenly ashamed. She'd promised Edward she was going to live. And here she is, barely surviving.

"It's a long story," she says finally. "After you were gone, I killed Lilith."

Mike's eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "That's why the deserts disappeared."

"Yeah."

"And what about…" Even after so long, she can see that he's not entirely over what Jane has done to him.

"Marcus killed her." She pushes aside her tray. "Also, I'm free now, like you. There won't be another reset. This time it's for real."

Mike's sigh was one of relief but also nostalgy. "I see. Thanks for telling me."

They rise together, looking at each other with unexpected solidarity.

"Did you find your sister?" she asks finally.

"Yeah. She was safe in an underground facility. And since the destruction disappeared, she's been just like any other insufferable middle school girl."

She laughs at that. "I see."

Mike pauses and then the question bursts from his lips as though he's been wanting to ask it for a long time. "Why did you free me? Why didn't you just take it for yourself?"

Bella chews her lip. "Honestly? I didn't have something to live for. You did. Freedom would've been wasted on me back then."

"And now?"

She smiles.

"Now, I have a promise to keep."

Mike nods. "Good luck. And I've never said it before but… thank you."

She waves his thanks aside. "I don't really deserve that. I almost—" The memory of nearly murdering him turns her stomach in this peaceful setting. "In any case, I'm glad I met you. After so many weeks… I wonder if I'd dreamed it all. Except everything feels so unbelievably trivial."

He shakes his head. "It's real. It's real and it's all in here." He points to his forehead. "And here." He presses a hand over the left of his chest, over where his heart is and she stares at him. This isn't the same bumbling, frightened boy she knows from Volterra.

"Since when did you become so wise?"

He laughs. "You said this is your first reset. This is my thousandth. We're the same physical age but I've been around at least ten times longer."

There's another pause as they both digest the new information and then Mike turns away, smiling. "I'll see you around, then."

"Definitely," she says and then she grins, feeling much lighter. "I want to know what those exam questions are."

-x-xx- _Graduation_ -xx-x-

It's been exactly five years since that fateful day.

She'd graduated, done four years of premed and then she'd been accepted into medical school in Dartmouth.

Today is her first day of lab and she's running late. She always feels out of sorts on Edward's death anniversary and today is no different. She'd cycled twice to the wrong building and is now rushing to the correct one. She locks her bicycle and hurriedly shoves her arms into her lab coat before dashing into the histology lab, flustered beyond belief.

The professor gives her a disapproving expression as she stutters out a quick apology. He waves her to the back of the class. "Take a seat Ms er…?"

"Swan," she says, turning red. "Bella Swan."

"Right. Ms Swan, take a seat, please. As I was saying, we'll be doing a quick recap of AP biology—mitosis and meiosis—which I'm sure will be a breeze for most of you. After that, we'll move on to identifying the various stages of female gametes. At the end of this class, you should be able to differentiate between the primordial follicle, the primary follicle and—..."

Bella hugs the file to her chest, her eyes drawn to the board where the professor had written his name. _Professor Banner_.

Still far from calm, she sits herself at the edge of the stool, plugging in and adjusting her microscope before searching through the box for the mitosis slides.

"It's slide 48 onwards," a soft, familiar voice says from beside her and she's so shocked the entire box slips out of her arms.

His hands shoot out, saving her from the catastrophe of breaking a hundred precious specimens, and she finally looks at her lab partner.

His eyes are startling; not red or even gold, as she'd remembered, but a brilliant green, the clear colour of sea glass.

It's him.

He laughs nervously and she realises she's gawking at him like an idiot. Somehow, she manages to close her mouth as he replaces the box onto the table.

"Edward Masen," he introduces breathlessly, his cheeks somewhat pink as he holds out a hand.


	44. Beautiful World

After getting over the initial shock, she can't help the silly smile from spreading across her face as she reaches out, grasping his outstretched hand.

Their hands fit together like two puzzle pieces, the sensation so familiar and yet foreign at the same time. She recognises the contour and shape of his hand, feeling and confirming each bump, but his warmth is startling.

"Thanks for the catch." She nods at her microscope case and the colour in his cheeks darken slightly. Human Edward seems so shy.

"It's nothing," he murmurs.

The words knock the breath out of her lungs—they're an echo of the many different ways he's said it in a past that no longer exists. Even if he doesn't remember, he's still the same.

_I've missed you_.

As the handshake ends, her palm feels empty without his warmth. The urge to throw her arms around him and embrace him is so strong that she has to force herself to turn away. She takes a deep breath, telling herself to act normal.

Her hands are unsteady as she takes the first slide out and places it under the lens.

"Your name is Bella, isn't it?" He's looking at her again, his cheeks still flushed, and her heart speeds up. He's never looked more alive than he has in this moment. The tiny imperfections on his skin are beautiful and so is the slowness of his human movements. He's real and he's right here.

"Yeah." Her voice sounds thankfully normal.

He smiles tentatively. "It suits you." He clears his throat somewhat nervously and turns his attention back to his microscope, fiddling with the knobs.

There's so much she wants to ask him but she can't find the words.

Emotions in a turmoil, she adjusts her own microscope, scribbling down the answers. _Prophase._ Next slide. _Metaphase._ Half of her mind is on her task, the other half is swimming with questions for him. _What's your favourite human food? Have you been happy? Did you find love?_

She does her task on autopilot, barely realising that she's completed the entire exercise until she turns the page to realise that there are no more questions. A quick scan tells her that the rest of the class is still busy. She twists her fingers together nervously, starting to regret reading in advance. There's nothing distracting her from her feverish thoughts now.

Edward has also moved on from cell division, frowning at an ovarian follicle.

"Bella?" Her head snaps up at the soft sound of his voice calling her name. He glances at her finished exercise and then turns the eyepiece towards her. "What do you think this is?"

"Uh…" She scoots closer, staring at the cells. "Primordial follicle?"

"Not primary?"

"I don't know, the granulosa cells still look pretty flat…"

He scratches his head. "How flat is _flat_?"

She shrugs, smiling. "It could be a transitory phase. I mean, it's a cycle after all. One stage moving on to another…"

He's completely still, his eyes vacant, and then he shakes his head, leaning towards her. "I'm sorry, could you say that again?"

At this proximity, it would be so easy to lean in and kiss him.

"A transitory phase," she repeats, a little breathless.

"Transitory," he echoes, a slight crease forming between his brows. "It's transitory because…?"

His confusion is adorable but she doesn't understand why he's not getting it.

"Because it's one stage moving on to another, a cycle—…"

This time, his muscles lock down so visibly that she stops speaking.

"Edward?" she says uncertainly.

"A cycle."

He's staring, those stunning emerald eyes intense, stealing all coherent thought from her mind before he looks away. "I'm sorry. It's just- you—"

Her heart begins to race but the sound of clicking oxfords approaches them and their professor's figure casts a shadow before their desk.

"Mr Masen, Ms Swan, how is it going?" Professor Banner is looking at their papers, adjusting his spectacles. His eyebrows quirk at the sight of her paper. "Excellent work, Ms Swan. Could you come up to the projector and explain your answers?"

Bella looks at Edward once more and then reluctantly, she tears her gaze away and rises.

-x-xx-x-xx-x-

The professor stops her again at the end of her mini-presentation, asking her to sign her attendance. He spends some time searching for the sheet, shuffling through the stack on the front desk and by the time she's signed, the rest of the class—together with Edward—is gone.

Her heart sinks.

Her next lab isn't for another two weeks. She packs away the microscope, slings her bag over her shoulder and tries to pull open the door. But it doesn't budge. She tries again and then peers down at it.

A magnetic lock.

Has the professor locked her in by accident?

Nervous now, she puts her weight in pushing instead of pulling it—and it works. The door flies open…

And smashes someone right in the face. It's Edward and he's holding his nose, blood trailing between his fingers.

Her heart tangoes in a confusing mixture of joy and horror.

"Crap, I'm so sorry!" She pulls out a tissue from her pocket, hurriedly handing it to him. "Are you okay?"

"S'all good," he mumbles, holding up a hand and pinching his nose. "Did the same last week…" His voice is muffled from the bleeding and she takes him by the elbow. Had she broken his nose?

"Should I take you to the infirmary?"

He shakes his head. "It's just a nosebleed. Look, it's already stopping."

"Sorry," she says again, inwardly smacking herself. It's been barely two hours and she's already injured him.

"It's all good." He wipes away the bit of blood and then shuffles his feet. "Do you have any more classes today?"

She swallows, her heart fluttering for the hundredth time. "No, it's my last one today."

He fingers his sleeves. "Great. Me too. I was wondering if—" He clears his throat. "Maybe, if you're hungry—…"

"I'm starving," she says eagerly. "Actually, I live on campus and I have something prepared at my place, do you want to um…"

What is she saying? Is it okay to invite him to her room on the first day? Does she sound desperate?

But his answering smile is dazzling. "I'd love to if it's not too much of a hassle."

Her heart soars. "Not at all."

She unlocks her bike and wheels it beside him, trying to find something appropriate to say. She looks up at him and feels a pang of guilt at the sight that greets her. "You're still bleeding. I'm really sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it. You were dealing with a Norman door." His eyes are sparkling unexpectedly as he dabs the trickle of blood away.

"A what?"

"A Norman door," he says, smiling. "A door that tells you the opposite of— well, it's a cool term for a bad door."

She mirrors his smile, feeling a rush of affection, and gives him a playful push.

"Nerd," she teases.

"Says the girl who gunned today's lab!" He chuckles, already becoming comfortable and she presses closer, unable to resist touching him, even if it is just their shoulders brushing. "You're probably the kind who sleeps in the library, aren't you?"

She gives him a look. "I'm sure you'll be right there beside me, Mr Norman Door."

He's not pulling away even though she's almost leaning on his shoulder and the air between them heats up considerably. "I just like art," he says softly. "Design. All that."

Human Edward likes art. She wants to know more. "Do you draw?"

"Yeah. Sketches and paintings." The lovely colour is returning to his cheeks, as though he's embarrassed. And now she's really interested.

"Show me?"

He chuckles but it's a nervous sound.

"Come on, it can't be that bad, can it?" They're reaching her place and she unlocks the door, pushing it open.

"No," he says, looking around. "It's just…" His eyes are intense once more, and she slants her head— _does_ he remember?—but then he doesn't continue, dropping his eyes. "Yeah, maybe it's bad."

She pauses, wavering.

"Edward? Do you…"

… _remember me?_

He meets her gaze and her mouth goes dry. What if she scares him away? She changes track, trying something less crazy-sounding. "Have you heard of Volterra?"

Her blood is thundering in her ears, heart in her throat as she waits, hoping…

"You mean that city in Italy?" he asks, entirely oblivious.

His words feel like cold water.

It must've shown because he looks concerned. "Is everything all right?"

She tries to smile. "Of course. Make yourself at home. I'll heat up the food."

She makes her way towards the kitchen, feeling foolish for having built her hopes so high. _Of course_ he doesn't remember. She shouldn't be upset. Out of seven billion people… she's found him. They're lucky to have met.

Feeling somewhat lighter, she brings out the plate of mushroom ravioli and sets it on the table. He's sitting on the armchair, looking at her shelf—probably the only interesting thing in her minimalistic room.

"You like reading?" he asks, fingering the worn spine of _Wuthering Heights_.

"Yeah," she says, arranging the cutlery. "I almost picked literature."

He smiles. "What made you change your mind?"

She doesn't know how to answer him. _After a hundred years, I want to heal instead of kill for a change._ "I nearly died from a stroke once when I was seventeen," she says instead, opting for the generic answer. "There was a neurologist, Carlisle. He inspired me."

She doesn't know what she's hoping to achieve by mentioning Carlisle's name, but it doesn't evoke any reaction in him.

"You had a stroke at seventeen?" he asks, looking incredulous.

"Well, they _think_ it's a stroke. No one found the clot but I was in a coma for two days," she says.

"Wow, that's pretty scary," he says, coming over to sit down. "I'm glad you're okay."

_It's because of you._

"Thanks."

They eat and continue the conversation. She finds out that he's from Chicago, that his mother's name is Elizabeth and that she's an architect. She finds out that he plays the piano. Their conversation runs smoothly and although he doesn't remember her, she finds herself liking human Edward more and more.

"Thanks for the food," he says, helping her bring the empty plates to the sink. "It's delicious. I think your mushroom ravioli is going to be my new favourite dish."

She laughs. "I'm flattered."

When she turns, he's right behind her, his stunning emerald eyes filled with affection. It's so similar to the expression her old Edward used to give her that she freezes, her eyes brimming with unexpected tears.

"Bella?"

She blinks, dabbing at it with her sleeve. "Soap got in my eye."

To her surprise, he puts a hand on the small of her back and turns on the tap, scooping up some water and gently helping her wash away the imaginary soap.

"Does it still sting?" he asks.

"No." Her heart squeezes together. "Thanks, Edward."

He waves it away. "Sometimes when I'm painting, it gets in my eye too," he says, "And then I don't know, I'll panic. I have a complex with my eyes because at one point I kept having nightmares of being blind in one eye and—" He stops himself, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Sorry, this must sound really weird."

But she's staring at him. If she's wrong, she'll sound like a lunatic but it's too much of a coincidence. "Of being blind in one eye and then someone holding you down?"

He inhales sharply.

"A wasteland, an empty central park…" She comes closer to him, her voice a whisper. " _Vampires_?"

His pupils dilate, his breathing uneven and then the word that comes out is soft, unsure.

"Isa?"

She can't hold herself back this time—she throws her arms around him, weeping.

"It's me," she manages to say between her ridiculous crying. "I've missed you."

His arms come around her without hesitation and in his embrace, she can't remember feeling happier.

"I've dreamt about you," he murmurs. "Of the cycles. Doing it over and over again… They've always felt real and when you walked in today..."

"It's real," she says. "It's all real. But I tried to ask you about Volterra, why didn't you tell me then?"

"I only remember fragments," he confesses. "But you're in every one of them. You're in most of my paintings, it's why I was afraid when you asked—"

She laughs, holding him more tightly. "I love you, Edward."

"I love you too."

It's music to her ears.

Holding him like this, knowing that he remembers, knowing the years they still have together, she lets herself sink deeper into his arms and finally feels home in the world.

**~The End~**


End file.
